


50 Shades Starker

by UsagiShipper



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 50 Shades of Grey Fusion, Canon Rewrite, Daddy Kink, Inspired by 50 Shades of Grey, M/M, Peter is Anastasia, Sugar Daddy, Tony is Christian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-11-27 08:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UsagiShipper/pseuds/UsagiShipper
Summary: Rewrite of the first chapter of 50 shades with Ana and Christian being Peter and Tony. Because why not?





	1. Chapter 1

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair - it just won’t behave, and damn Ned Leeds for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired boy with black eyes too big for his face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward mane with hair gel and hope that I look semi presentable.

Ned is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no — today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown NY in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Stark Industries Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious — much more precious than mine — but he has granted Ned an interview. Damn his extra-curricular activities.

Ned is huddled on the couch in the living room.

“Pete, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Ned begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.

“Of course I’ll go Ned. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”

“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”

“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.

“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Ned, would I do this.

“I will. Good luck. And thanks, Pete — as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Ned talk me into this. But then Ned can talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative — and he’s my dearest, dearest friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Brooklyn towards Manhattan. Fortunately, Ned’s lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Stark’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty- story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Stark Industries written hugely in steel around the tower. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous — and frankly intimidating — glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

“I’m here to see Mr. Stark. Peter Parker for Edward Leeds.”

“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Parker.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self- consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Ned’s formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only formal shirt, my sensible brown skinny pants and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I run my hand through my hair for the thousandth time as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.

“Mr. Leeds is expected. Please sign in here, Mr. Parker. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby — again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impecably in black and white who rises to greet me.

“Mr. Parker, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.

Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Manhattan skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Ned for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I’m about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a rare edition of a comic book, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.

I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Parker. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Stark is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.

The elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is this guy’s deal with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.

“Mr. Parker?” the blonde asks.

“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.

“Mr. Stark will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?”

“Oh please.” I struggle out of the jacket.

“Have you been offered any refreshment?”

“Urn — no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?

Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.

“Would you like tea, coffee, water?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.

“A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.

“Olivia, please fetch Mr. Parker a glass of water.” Her voice is stern.

Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer, “In a minute, Miss Potts.”

“My apologies, Mr. Parker, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Stark will be another five minutes.”

Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.

“Here you go, Mr. Parker.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Potts marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.

Perhaps Mr. Stark insists on all his employees being blonde. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with an eyepatch exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.

He turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, Stark.”

I don’t hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!

“Good afternoon ladies,” he says as he departs through the sliding door.

“Mr. Stark will see you now, Mr. Parker. Do go through,” Miss Potts says.

I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.

“You don’t need to knock — just go in.” She smiles kindly.

I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.

Double crap — me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Stark’s office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow — he’s so… handsome. Yes, I might have hit the nail on the head about his age, but still.

“Mr. Leeds.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Tony Stark. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

So sturdy — and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a solid black suit, black shirt, and a red tie, a pair of sunglasses dangling by its frame inside the waistcoat pocket, with unruly dark copper colored hair and goatee, and intense, bright brown eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.

“Urn. Actually—” I mutter. If this guy is under thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.

“Mr. Leeds is indisposed, so he sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Stark.”

“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.

“Peter Parker. I’m studying English Literature with Ned, urn... Edward... urn... Mr. Leeds at New York Academy.”

“I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure.

“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.

His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite — a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.

“A local artist. Trouton,” says Stark when he catches my gaze.

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Parker,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Ned’s questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Stark says nothing, waiting patiently — I hope — as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his goatee. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Parker,” he says.

“Do you mind if I record your answers?”

“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder — you ask me now?”

I flush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Did Ned, I mean, Mr. Leeds, explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”

Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much different than anyone else — okay, maybe super-experienced, and okay, mega successful, but still — is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.

“Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Stark.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.

“You were very young when you amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.

“Business is all about people, Mr. Parker, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses and fixes me with his auburn stare. “My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”

“Maybe you’re just lucky. After all, it’s your family business.” This isn’t on Ned’s list — but he’s so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.

“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Mr. Parker. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”

“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Mr. Parker,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip just around his beard? I wish he’d stop doing that.

“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues, his voice soft.

“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control Freak.

“I employ over forty thousand people, Mr. Parker. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility — power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the robotics market and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”

My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.

“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.

“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at me.

I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he’s so arrogant. I change tack.

“And do you have any interests outside your work?”

“I have varied interests, Mr. Parker.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Very varied.” And for some reason, I’m confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.

“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”

“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.

“Well, to ‘chill out’ as you put it — I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.”

He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very wealthy man, Mr. Parker, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”

I glance quickly at Ned’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.

“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?

“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”

“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”

His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.

“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”

“Why would they say that?”

“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.

“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Ned’s list.

“I’m a very private person, Mr. Parker. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews,” he trails off.

“Why did you agree to do this one?”

“Because I’m a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Mr. Leeds off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.”

I know how tenacious Ned can be. That’s why I’m sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.

“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”

“We can’t eat money, Mr. Parker, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”

“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”

He shrugs, very non-committal.

“It’s shrewd business,” he murmurs, though I think he’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense — feeding the world’s poor? I can’t see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.

“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”

“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle — Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control — of myself and those around me.”

“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.

“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”

“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”

“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Ned has enough material now? I glance at the next question.

“Your parents died. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows.

“I have no way of knowing.”

My interest is piqued.

“How old were you when the accident happened?”

“That’s a matter of public record, Mr. Parker.” His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course — if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research.

I move on quickly.

“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”

“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.

“Sorry.” I squirm, and he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again. “Have you

had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”

“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

“Are you gay, Mr. Stark?”

He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I’m just reading the questions? Damn Ned and his curiosity!

“No, kid, I’m not.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.

“I apologize. It’s urn... written here.”  _‘Kid’?!_  Yeah, all right, I know this guy is literally thirty years older than me, and I’m a college student freshly out of high school, but ‘kid’?  _Really?_  However, it’s the first time he’s called me informally. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I cart my hand through my unruly hair again.

He cocks his head to one side.

“These aren’t your own questions?”

The blood drains from my head. Oh no.

“Err... no. Ned — Mr. Leeds — he compiled the questions.”

“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s his extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.

“No. He’s my roommate.”

He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.

“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.

Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.

“I was drafted. He’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.

“That explains a great deal.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two — Miss Potts — enters.

“Mr. Stark, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”

“We’re not finished here, Pepper. Please cancel my next meeting.”

Pepper hesitates, gaping at him. She’s appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me.

“Very well, Mr. Stark,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.

“Where were we, Mr. Parker?”

Oh, we’re back to ‘Mr. Parker’ now.

“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”

“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His gray eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very... distracting. I swallow.

“There’s not much to know,” I say, flushing again.

“What are your plans after you graduate?”

I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Manhattan with Ned, find a place, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals.

“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Stark. I just need to get through my final exams.” Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.

“We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I murmur, completely confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.

“Why do you say that?” He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not a girl. Heck, I’m not even a blonde.

“Not to me,” he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go — now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.

“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.

“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Stark, and I do have a long drive.”

“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.

“Yes sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.

“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Stark.”

“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.

As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.

“Until we meet again, Mr. Parker.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.

“Mr. Stark.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Mr. Parker.” He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.

“That’s very considerate, Mr. Stark,” I snap, and his smile widens. I’m glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I’m surprised when he follows me out. Pepper and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.

“Did you have a coat?” Stark asks.

“Yes.” Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Stark takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.

Stark places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting — awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s distracting. His burning brown eyes gaze at me.

“Peter,” he says as a farewell.

“Tony,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.


	2. Chapter 2

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Manhattan. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.

No man has ever affected me the way Tony Stark has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself – but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be – he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Ned didn’t give me a brief biography.

While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic – as if he had a hidden agenda. And Ned’s questions – ugh! The adoption, the parents’ death and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Ned Leeds!

I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating auburn eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Stark’s more like a man double his age.

Forget it, Pete, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping Ramones’  _Blitzkrieg Bop_  as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the 1-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.

We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Queens, somewhat far away to the campus of NYFA, but I don’t ever complain. After all, I’m lucky – Ned’s parents bought the place for him, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Ned is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and he is tenacious. Well, at least he has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.

“Pete! You’re back.” Ned sits in our living area, surrounded by books. He’s clearly been studying for finals – though he’s still in his flannel pajamas decorated with cute little Lego characters, the ones he reserves for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. He bounds up to me and hugs me hard.

“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”

“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini-disc recorder at him.

“Pete, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?” Oh no – here we go, the Ned Leeds Inquisition.

I struggle to answer his question. What can I say?

“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see him again. He was quite intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “He’s very focused, intense even – and mature. Really mature.”

Ned gazes innocently at me. I frown at him.

“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Ned clamps a hand to his mouth.

“Jeez, Pete, I’m sorry – I didn’t think.”

I huff.

“Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy – like he’s old before his time. How old is he anyway?”

“Forty-eight. Jeez, Pete, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.”

“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” He smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch.

“I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton’s.”

“Pete, you’ll be exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

I’ve worked at Clayton’s since I started at NYFA. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell – although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. When Uncle Ben was alive, I used to leave it all to him and now I just don’t know shit about anything people would consider to be ‘useful for a man to know’ about. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-joystick-in-a-comfy-bed kind of boy. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Tony Stark. We’re busy – it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton is pleased to see me.

“Pete! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.”

“My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.”

“I’m real pleased to see you.”

She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in the task.

When I arrive home later, Ned is wearing headphones and working on his laptop. His nose is still pink, but he has his teeth into a story for the Daily Bugle, so he’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained – exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with… him.

“You’ve got some good stuff here, Pete. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t take him up on his offer to show you around. He obviously wanted to spend more time with you.” He gives me a fleeting quizzical look.

I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the reason, surely? He just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I hope Ned doesn’t notice. But he seems absorbed in his transcription.

“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?” he asks.

“Um… no, I didn’t.”

“That’s fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

I flush.

“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed.

“Oh come on, Pete – even you can’t be immune to his looks.” He arches a perfect eyebrow at me.

Crap! I distract him with flattery, always a good ploy.

“Come on, anyone else would have got a lot more out of him.”

“I doubt that, Pete. Come on – he practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well.” He glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

“So what did you really think of him?” Damn, he’s annoying. Why can’t he just let this go? Think of something – quick.

“He’s very driven, controlling, arrogant – scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at his hoping this will shut him up once and for all.

“You, fascinated by someone else? That’s a first since your freshman year crush, Mary Jane,” he snorts.

I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so he can’t see my face.

“Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory.

“Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date.”

“It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.”

“Oh, Pete, it can’t have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you.”

“Okay, you can stop being stupid now.”

The exasperation in my voice is enough for Ned to make a rope so he can keep pulling on.

“What? Don’t you ever thought about getting a sugar daddy, baby Pete?” he snickers.

“ _Ned!_ ”

“Okay, alright!” He just can’t stop laughing. “Don’t be such a prude and learn to take a joke from time to time, Jeez!”

I sigh. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“Please.”

We talk no more of Tony Stark that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Ned and, while he works on his article, I work on my essay on the relation between comic books and literature. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Ned has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday.

I curl up in my white and red iron bed, wrapping my Aunt May’s old quilt around me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and brown eyes.

For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton’s. Ned is busy too, compiling his last edition of his student magazine before he has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for his finals. By Wednesday, he’s much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of his flannel-with-too-many-Lego-characters PJs. I call my aunt to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making – Aunt May is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she’s bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week. She worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Bob – her relatively new but much older husband – is keeping an eye on her now that I’m no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.

“How are things with you, Pete?”

For a moment, I hesitate, and I have May’s full attention.

“I’m fine.”

“Pete? Have you met someone?” Wow… how does she do that? The excitement in her voice is palpable.

“No, Aunt May, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.”

“Pete, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”

“Aunt May, I’m fine. How’s Bob?” As ever, distraction is the best policy.

Later that evening, I call Ray, my step uncle, Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Ray is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he’s not. Ray is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.

Friday night, Ned and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings. Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Flash, clutching a bottle of champagne. “What’s up, losers!”

“Flash! Great to see you too!” I give him a quick hug. “Come in.”

Flash is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did. We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Ray and Flash Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our per se relatives have become firm friends too.

Flash is studying bioengineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He’s pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Flash has a great eye for a good picture.

“I have news.” He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Don’t tell me – you’ve managed not to get kicked out for another week,” I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.

“The Manhattan Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month.”

“That’s amazing – congratulations!” Delighted for him, I hug him again. Ned beams at him too.

“Way to go Flash! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening.” He grins.

“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” Flash looks intently at me. I flush. “Both of you, of course,” he adds, glancing nervously at Ned.

Flash and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he’d like to be more. He’s cute and funny, but he’s just not for me. He’s more like the brother I never had, pretty much just like Ned is. Ned often teases me that I’m missing the getting-laid gene, but the truth is – I just haven’t met anyone who… well, whom I’m attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that.

Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers. NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview.  _Are you gay, Mr. Stark?_  I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamt about him most nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?

I watch Flash open the bottle of champagne. He’s tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he’s all shoulders and muscles, easy flushing skin, blonde hair and burning blue eyes. Yes, Flash’s pretty hot, but I think he’s finally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Flash looks up and smiles.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, John and Patrick – the two other part-timers – and I are all rushed off our feet. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up… and find myself locked in the bold brown gaze of Tony Stark who’s standing at the counter, staring at me intently.

Heart failure.

“Mr. Parker. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense.

Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice.

“Mr. Stark,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke.

“I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, kid.” His voice is warm and husky, and it trickles down my body when it goes inside my ears as if it has a life of its own.

I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

“Peter. My name’s Peter,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Stark?”

He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’m-a-grown-up-who-have-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.

“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” he murmurs, his brunet eyes cool but amused.

Cable ties?

“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery. Get a grip, Parker. A slight frown mars Stark’s rather lovely brow.

“Please. Lead the way, kid,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.

“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. I blush.

“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.

With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Queens? Why is he here at Clayton’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: he’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

“Are you in Queens on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Pete!

“I was visiting the WSU farming division. It’s based at Vancouver. I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.

“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.

“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.

He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.

“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.

“Is there anything else?”

“I’d like some masking tape.”

Masking tape?

“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?

“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.

Am I that funny? Funny looking?

“This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”

I glance behind me as he follows.

“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, russet eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Parker!

“Two years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.

“I’ll take that one,” Stark says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.

“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.

“Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.

“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… ” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening.

“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.

“Were you a Boy Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth!

“Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Stark.”

He arches a brow.

“What is your  _thing_ , Peter?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Pete, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.

“Books? And videogames… I think?” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.

“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?

“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly. But I also love super-hero comic books. I know it may sound silly and juvenile, but it was this specific, ‘little-boyish’ part of me that gave me an impulse to study literature in the end.” As I talk, it’s too late until I notice that I’m involuntary smiling.

He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.

“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.

“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”

What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.

“For a do-it-yourselfer?”

He nods, eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.

“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.

“I could always take them off.” He smirks.

“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.

“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.

I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.

“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.

He ignores my inquiry.

“How’s the article coming along?”

He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty.

“I’m not writing it, Ned is. Mr. Leeds. My roommate, he’s the writer. He’s very happy with it. He’s the editor of the Daily Bulge, and he was devastated that he couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air – at last, a normal topic of conversation. “His only concern is that he doesn’t have any original photographs of you.”

Stark raises an eyebrow.

“What sort of photographs does he want?”

Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.

“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” he trails off.

“You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Ned will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off.  _And you might see him again tomorrow_ , that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the silly, ridiculous…

“Ned will be delighted – if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.

Oh my. Tony Stark’s lost look.

“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.”

“Okay.” I grin up at him. Ned is going to be thrilled.

“PETE!”

Paul has materialized at other the end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Clayton’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today.

“Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Stark.” Stark frowns as I turn away from him.

Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Stark, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Paul hugs me hard taking me by surprise.

“Pete, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes.

“Hello Paul, how are you? You home for your brother’s birthday?”

“Yep. You’re looking well, Pete, really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been over-familiar.

When I glance up at Tony Stark, he’s watching us like a hawk, his gray eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else – someone cold and distant.

“Paul, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Stark’s eyes. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.

“Er, Paul, this is Tony Stark. Mr. Stark, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.

“I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton where he’s studying business administration.” I’m babbling… Stop, now!

“Mr. Clayton.” Tony holds his hand out, his look unreadable.

“Mr. Stark,” Paul returns his handshake. “Wait up – not the Tony Stark? Of Stark Industries?” Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Stark gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Wow – is there anything I can get you?”

“Peter has it covered, Mr. Clayton. He’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… it’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling.

“Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Pete.”

“Sure, Paul.” I watch him disappear toward the stock room. “Anything else, Mr. Stark?”

“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem?

I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.

“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Stark, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, his gaze intense and smoky. It’s unnerving.

“Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card.

“Please, Peter.” His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.

“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.

“Good. Until tomorrow perhaps.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh – and Peter, I’m glad Mr. Leeds couldn’t do the interview.” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet Earth.

Okay – I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely? No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Ned and organize a photo-shoot.


	3. Chapter 3

Ned is ecstatic.

“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” His curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.

“He was in the area.”

“I think that is one huge coincidence, Pete. You don’t think he was there to see you?” he speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on business.

“He was visiting the farming division of NYFA. He’s funding some research,” I mutter.

“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”

Wow.

“How do you know this?”

“Pete, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the guy. It’s my job to know this.”

“Okay, Carl Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”

“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”

“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”

“You can contact him?”

“I have his cell phone number.”

Ned gasps.

“The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his cell phone number.”

“Er… yes.”

“Pete! He likes you. No doubt about it.” His tone is emphatic.

“Ned, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Tony Stark doesn’t do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Ned is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Ned didn’t do the interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief moment. Ned brings me back to the now.

“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular photographer, can’t. He’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of America’s leading entrepreneurs.”

“Hmm… What about Flash?”

“Great idea! You ask him – he’ll do anything for you. Then call Stark and find out where he wants us.” Ned is irritatingly cavalier about Flash.

“I think you should call him.”

“Who, Flash?” Ned scoffs.

“No, Stark.”

“Pete, you’re the one with the relationship.”

“Stop being a stupid fangirl, Ned!” I squeak at him, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy.”

“At least you’ve met him,” he says bitterly. “And it looks like he wants to know you better. Pete, just call him,” he snaps and hangs up. He is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.

I’m just leaving a message for Flash when Paul enters the stock room looking for sandpaper.

“We’re kind of busy out there, Pete,” he says without acrimony.

“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.

“So, how come you know Tony Stark?” Paul’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.

“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Ned wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.

“Tony Stark in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?”

Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Stark? My subconscious asks me.

“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”

“Pete, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.

 

 

“But I do places, Pete, not people,” Flash groans.

“Flash, please?” I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.

“Give me that phone.” Ned grabs the handset from me.

“Listen here, Flash Thompson, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?” Ned can be awesomely tough.

“Good. Pete will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” He snaps my cell phone shut.

“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” He holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.

“Call Stark, now!”

I scowl at him and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.

He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold.

“Stark.”

“Err… Mr. Stark? It’s Peter Parker.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.

“Oh – hey, kid. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m suddenly conscious that Edward Leeds is staring at me, annoyingly mimicking a cheerleader while throwing imaginary pom-poms behind me in a silent, far-fetched dance, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid his unwanted scrutiny.

“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.” Breathe, Pete, breathe. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”

I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.

“I’m staying at the Pennsylvania in Manhattan. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown man who can vote, work and speak by himself.

“I look forward to it, kid.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his brown eyes. How can he make six little words hold so much tantalizing promise? I hang up. Ned is in the kitchen, and he’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on his face.

“Peter Benjamin Parker. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing!”

“Oh Ned, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. He blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”

“The Pennsylvania, that figures,” mutters Ned. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”

“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with him as I open one of cupboards to make supper.

I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky chocolate eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

The Pennsylvania is nestled in the downtown heart of NYC. Its impressive grey stone obelisk. Flash, Travis, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Ned is in his CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is Flash’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Ned has managed to acquire the use of a room at the hotel free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When he explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Tony Stark CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Stark is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – she’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason. I suspect it’s Flash’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms her, because she’s putty in his hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.

It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Ned is in full flow.

“Flash, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” He doesn’t wait for his reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Pete, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Stark know where we are.”

Yes, Mister. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.

Half an hour later, Tony Stark walks into our suite.

Holy Crap! He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him… he’s so freaking hot. Stark is followed into the suite by a man also in his mid-forties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His black eyes watch us impassively.

“Mr. Parker, we meet again.” Stark extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly. Oh my… he really is, quite… wow. As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.

“Mr. Stark, this is Edward Leeds,” I mutter, waving a hand toward Ned who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

“The tenacious Mr. Leeds. How do you do?” He gives him a small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Peter said you were unwell last week.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Stark.” He shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid. I remind myself that Ned has been to the best private schools in the state. His family has money, and he’s grown up confident and sure of his place in the world. He doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of him.

“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” He gives him a polite, professional smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his tanned gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.

“This is Flash Thompson, our photographer,” I say, grinning at Flash who smiles with affection back at me. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Stark.

“Mr. Stark,” he nods.

“Mr. Thompson,” Stark’s expression changes too as he appraises Flash.

“Where would you like me?” Stark asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Ned is not about to let Flash run the show.

“Mr. Stark – if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” He directs him to a chair set up against the wall.

Travis switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Stark, and mutters an apology. Then Travis and I stand back and watch as Flash proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs hand-held, asking Stark to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, Flash takes several more, while Stark sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Stark from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from his cloudy gaze.

“Enough sitting.” Ned wades in again. “Standing, Mr. Stark?” he asks.

He stands, and Travis scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on Flash’s Nikon starts clicking again.

“I think we have enough,” Flash announces five minutes later.

“Great,” says Ned. “Thank you again, Mr. Stark.” He shakes his hand, as does Flash.

“I look forward to reading the article, Mr. Leeds,” murmurs Stark, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Mr. Parker?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Ned, who shrugs at me. I notice Flash scowling behind him.

Stark doesn’t even say goodbye as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.

What’s this about? What does he want? I pause in the hotel corridor, fidgeting nervously as Stark emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz-Cut in his sharp suit.

“I’ll call you, Happy,” he murmurs to Buzz-Cut. Happy wanders back down the corridor, and Stark turns his burning gaze to me. Crap… have I done something wrong?

“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”

My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Tony Stark is asking me on a date. He’s asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.

“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me.

“HAPPY,” he calls, making me jump. Happy, who had been retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us.

“Are they based at the university?” Stark asks, his voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.

“Happy can take them. He’s my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so he’ll be able to take the equipment too.”

“Mr. Stark?” Happy asks when he reaches us, giving nothing away.

“Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Mr. Leeds back home?”

“Certainly, sir,” Happy replies.

“There. Now can you join me for coffee.” Stark smiles as if it’s a done deal.

I frown at him.

“Um – Mr. Stark, err – this really… look, Happy doesn’t have to drive them home.” I flash a brief look at Happy, who remains stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Ned, if you give me a moment.”

Stark smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my… and he opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around him to enter the room, finding Edward in deep discussion with Flash.

“Pete, I think he definitely likes you,” he says with no preamble whatsoever. Flash glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust him,” he adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that he’ll stop talking. By some miracle, he does.

“Ned, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?”

“Why?”

“Tony Stark has asked me to go for coffee with him.”

His mouth pops open. Speechless Ned! I savor the moment. He grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.

“Pete, there’s something about him.” His tone is full of warning. “Okay, he’s gorgeous, even I agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”

“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.

“An innocent like you, Pete. You know what I mean,” he says a little irritated. I flush.

“Ned, it’s just coffee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won’t be long.”

He ponders, considering my request. Finally, he fishes his car keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. I hand him mine.

“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and rescue.”

“Thanks.” I hug him.

I emerge from the suite to find Tony Stark waiting, leaning up against the wall, looking like a male model in a pose for some glossy high-end magazine.

“Okay, let’s do coffee,” I murmur, flushing a beet red.

He grins.

“After you, Mr. Parker.” He stands up straight, holding his hand out for me to go first. I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with Tony Stark... and I hate coffee.

We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to him? My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about? What on Earth do I have in common with him? His soft, warm voice startles me from my reverie.

“How long have you known Edward Leeds?”

Oh, an easy questions for starters.

“Since our freshman year. He’s a good friend.”

“Hmm,” he replies, non-committal. What is he thinking?

At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Stark and I step into the elevator.

I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Stark through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have trashy piped music to distract us.

The doors open and, much to my surprise, Stark takes my hand, clasping it with his long cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Stark grins.

“What is it about elevators?” he mutters.

We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Stark avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand.

Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Stark turns left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Tony Stark is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Pete, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again.

We walk four blocks before we reach the Manhattan Coffee House, where Stark releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.

“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.

“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“No coffee?”

“I’m not keen on coffee.”

He smiles.

“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”

For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?

“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.

“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.

I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day… he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his hips… Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Stark is back, startling me.

I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Twinings English Breakfast’ – my favorite. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.

“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.

“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Tony Stark in a coffee shop in New York center. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head gazing quizzically at me.

“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.

“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”

Whoa… What?

“Who?”

“The photographer. Flash Thompson.”

I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?

“No. Flash’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”

“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His brown gaze holds mine. He’s so unnerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.

“He’s more like family,” I whisper.

Stark nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.

“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.

“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.

“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem nervous around most men.”

Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Stark.

“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

“You should find me intimidating,” he nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”

Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.

“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a mystery, Peter.”

Mysterious? Me?

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.

Am I? Wow… how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained? No Way.

“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.

“No,” I answer truthfully.

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.

He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.

“I’m used to getting my own way, Peter,” he murmurs. “In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.

“The only people who use my given name were my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”

Oh. He still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Tony.’ He is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Ned had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus of course he’s almost blonde – well, strawberry blonde – like all the women in his office. And he’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Tony and Ned. I take a sip of my tea, and Stark eats another small piece of his muffin.

“Are you an only child?” he asks.

Whoa… he keeps changing direction.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.

“My parents are…  _not around_  for a really long time.”

“Oh… I suspected it.”

“You  _suspected_  it?”

“I can see the signs of it.”

 _There are signs?_  I think about asking this aloud, but instead I keep quiet.

“Who took care of you?” Tony continues.

“My Aunt May and my Uncle Ben… for a while.”

“Where do they live?”

“Well, Aunt May is not too far away. I still see her from time to time.”

“And your Uncle?”

I try to speak, but the sobs in tears that gather inside of me every time this subject comes obstruct the words from coming out. I squeeze my hands in my jeans as I feel Tony’s perceptive gaze loosening upon me.

 “I’m sorry,” he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.

“That’s okay. I have a great step uncle now. Ex step uncle, but still.”

“So May remarried?”

I snort.

“You could say that.”

He frowns at me.

“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.

“Neither are you.”

“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.

Holy shit. He’s remembering the ‘gay’ question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my aunt – anything to block that memory.

“My aunt is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth husband.”

Tony raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen her for so long. Tony is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.

“Do you get along with your step uncles?”

“Of course. I grew up with them. The only ones I could call father.”

“And what’s the one you liked the most?”

“Ray? He’s… taciturn.”

“That’s it?” Stark asks, surprised.

I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?

“Taciturn like his step nephew,” Stark prompts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.

“He likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.

“You lived with him?”

“Yes. My aunt met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t want to live with your aunt?” he asks.

I blush. This really is none of his business.

“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in New York. And… you know my aunt was newly married.” I stop. Aunt May never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Stark going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.

“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.

He shrugs.

“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Paris.”

Oh… he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.

“I meant your biological parents…” I couldn’t stop the statement of slipping out my lips. “I-I mean… Howard Stark was a pretty famous engineering, and… hm–” I try to redo the mess I made, but it’s no use.

His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.

“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?

“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.

“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?

“Would you like to go?”

“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”

He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.

“Because?”

I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Parker.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”

All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.

“I’d better go. I have to study.”

“For your exams?”

“Yes. They start Tuesday.”

“Where’s Mr Leeds’s car?”

“In the hotel parking lot.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Stark.”

He smiles his odd I’ve got a whopping big secret smile.

“You’re welcome, Peter. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.

We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m not sure what it is.

“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.

“Mostly?”

He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question… And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap - I just said that out loud?

His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.

“No, kid. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.

Oh… what does that mean? He’s not gay? Oh, maybe he is - crap! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.

“Shit, Peter!” Stark cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.

It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms, and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. .I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my, it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it’s forever… but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. Oh my. And for the first time in eighteen years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I worked a little bit more on the changes. Tried my best on focusing on the Marvel characters' personalities without taking too much out from the original Fifty Shades. Hope you enjoy it.

Kiss me damn it! I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Tony Stark’s exquisitely sculptured mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve.

“Peter, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown up at him, and my head swims with rejection.

“Breathe, Peter, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.

Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Tony, leaving me wired and weak. NO! My psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, watching my reactions carefully. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me. He really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.

“I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you,” I mutter awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from him. Now.

“For what?” he frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands off me.

“For saving me,” I whisper.

“That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?” He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling like a fool.

With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes have been dashed. He doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? I scold myself. What would Tony Stark want with you? My subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man has appeared. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Stark is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to face him but cannot look him in the eye.

“Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot,” I murmur.

“Peter… I… ” He stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His brown eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair. He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated.

“What, Tony?” I snap irritably after he says – nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.

“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.

Huh? This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big send off? Just to wish me luck in my exams?

“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Goodbye, Mr. Stark.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.

Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was – my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

He’s gone. I thought I had him and now he’s gone. They always are. Dad’s gone. Uncle Ben’s gone. Ray’s gone. And now… Just explain to me how on earth I ever thought I could make Tony Stark of all men be the one to stay with me? What was I expecting? For him to cherish me? To take care of me? What I even wanted with him to begin with? Just another one to add to the pile of my failed attempts of replacing a fraternal male figure in my life? Well, it seems so. I am such a fool.

I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay… so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball – but I understood that – running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.

Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity – I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of ‘unmanly’ things goes on. So I have always been too unconfident to dare calling someone out – and god forbid even more if it was a female. There was that girl once in my chemistry class who I think I used to like, Mary Jane, but it didn’t go further than that – no one except Tony damn Stark. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and Flash Thompson, though I’m sure neither of them have been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.

Stop! Stop Now! - My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping its foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him… Now! And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.

I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together Parker. I head for Ned’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.

 

Ned is sitting at the dining table at his laptop when I arrive. His welcoming smile fades when he sees me.

“Pete what’s wrong?”

Oh no… not the Edward Inquisition. Why did I have to make friends with a journalist again? I shake my head at him in a back-off now Edward way – but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.

“You’ve been crying,” he has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” he growls, and his face – jeez.

“Nothing Ned.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.

“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” he says, his voice softening. He stands, his green eyes brimming with concern. He puts his hand on my shoulder and comforts me. I need to say something just to get him to back off.

“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can do, but it distracts Ned momentarily from… him.

“Jeez Pete – are you okay? Were you hurt?” He holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual check-up on me.

“No. Tony saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.”

“I’m not surprised. How was coffee? I know you hate coffee.”

“I had tea. It was fine, nothing to report really. I don’t know why he asked me.”

“He likes you Pete.”

“Not anymore. I won’t be seeing him again.” Yes, I manage to sound matter of fact.

“Oh?”

Crap. He’s intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that he can’t see my face.

“Yeah… he’s a little out of my league Ned,” I say as dryly as I can manage.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious.” I roll my eyes and face him as he stands in the kitchen doorway.

“Not to me,” he says. “Okay, he’s got more money than you, but then the guy has more money than most people in America!”

“Ned he’s– ” I shrug.

“Dude, for heaven’s sake – how many times must I tell you? You’re a great guy,” he interrupts me. Oh no. He’s off on this tirade again.

“Ned, please. I need to study.” I cut him short. He frowns.

“Do you want to see the article? It’s finished. Flash took some great pictures.”

Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Tony I-don’t-want-you Stark?

“Sure,” I magic a smile on to my face and stroll over to the laptop. And there he is, staring at me in black and white, staring at me and finding me lacking.

I try to read the article, all the time meeting his steady russet gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he’s not the man for me – his own words to me. And it’s suddenly, blindingly obvious. The answer is there, between the lines. He’s too mature. Too knowledgeable. Too responsible. And not to mention too gloriously good-looking and too old for me. Stark is too everything, and everything I am too is too less. We are poles apart and from two very different worlds. He grew up with the rise of the Walkman; I grew up with the internet. I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result. I stop trying to see us both walking together and lengthen my vision to the people walking around us. His words make sense. He’s not the man for me. For all I know, he’s old enough to be my dad instead of my boyfriend, and experienced enough to be my professor instead of my classmate. I would have nothing to bring to his table if we were in a relationship. Just imagine how awkward would it be to bring a guy like him to go out to frat parties and walks alongside my friends. This is what he meant, and it makes his rejection easier to accept… almost. I can live with this. I understand.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe there isn’t any other better way to call me by than ‘kid.’

“Very good Ned,” I manage. “I’m going to study.” I am not going to think about him again for now, I vow to myself, and opening my revision notes, I start to read.

It’s only when I’m in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to drift through my strange morning. I keep coming back to the ‘I don’t do the girlfriend thing’ quote, and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on this information sooner, when I was in his arms mentally begging him with every fiber of my being to kiss me. He’d said it there and then. He didn’t want me as a beau. I turn on to my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps he’s celibate? I close my eyes and begin to drift. Maybe he’s saving himself. Well not for you, my sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me before unleashing itself on my dreams.

And that night, I dream of brown eyes, leafy patterns in milk, and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it… it’s just not clear.

 

I put my pen down. Finished. My final exam is over. I feel the Cheshire cat grin spread over my face. It’s probably the first time all week that I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I have never been drunk before apart from that one time during the high school prom, but I still remember it – not being drunk exactly, but the excitement, the rush, the unharmful, oozing youthful and recklessness of doing something considered ‘wrong’ or ‘for grown-ups.’ After everything that went down yesterday, maybe that’s exactly what I need today. I glance across the sports hall at Ned, and he’s still scribbling furiously, five minutes to the end. This is it, the end of my first year in college. Ned stops writing and puts his pen down. He glances across at me, and I catch his Cheshire cat smile too.

We head back to our apartment together in his Mercedes, refusing to discuss our final paper. Ned is more concerned about what he’s going to wear in order to impress some random girl at the bar this evening. I am busily fishing around in my pockets for my keys.

“Pete, there’s some weird package for you.” Ned is standing on the steps up to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon recently. Ned gives me the parcel and takes my keys to open the front door. It’s addressed to Mr. Peter Parker. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s from Aunt May or Ray.

“It’s probably from my folks.”

“Open it!” Ned is excited as he heads into the kitchen for our ‘Exams are finished hurrah Champagne’.

I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing an old cloth-covered book in mint condition, three distinctive comics protected in plastic wraps, and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:

 

_I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever; but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita._

Here’s to always keeping your inner little boy alive.

— Stark.

 

I recognize the quote from Vladimir Nabokov’s  _Lolita_. I am stunned by the irony as I’ve just spent three hours writing about the problematic implication of this novel’s romance in my final exam. Perhaps there is no irony… perhaps it’s deliberate. I try to inspect the books closely but Ned snatches the comics right off my hand just by the mere sight of them.

“Dude!” he shouts. “Do you know what these are?!” He deliberately shows me the covers from the magazines –  _TALES OF SUSPENSE NO. 39_ ,  _AMAZING FANTASY NO. 15_  and  _MARVEL COMICS NO. 1_.

I let my jaw drop. “Holy shit,” I mumble. And Ned does the rest of the talking for me.

“They are first editions. They worth a fortune! Have you ever checked some of those on EBay? It must cost more than a whole year NYFA paycheck!”

Oh, gosh. Ned is at my shoulder glaring at the books with that nerdy drive glossed over his pupils just as I am. He picks up the card.

“First Editions,” I whisper.

“No.” Ned’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Stark?”

I nod.

“Couldn’t be anyone else.”

“What does this card mean?”

“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning…”  _More like an explanation_ , my subconscious gasps. “I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his door down.” I frown.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him, Pete, but he’s seriously into you. Warnings or no.”

I have not let myself dwell on Tony Stark for the past week. Okay… so his brown eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me this? He told me that I wasn’t for him.

“Dude, I’ve found one  _Tales of Suspense_  first edition for sale in LA for $370,000 once. But still, yours looks in much better condition. They must have cost even more.” He says that by mind as if it is something anyone casually knows about.  _God!_  Sometimes I think we are always competing to see who is the nerdiest in the house.

“The  _Lolita_  copy is also pretty old. And the quote from the note – Humbert says it as soon as he realizes that his relationship with Dolores it’s fragile…”

“I know,” muses Ned. “What is he trying to say? Weirdo, right!”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.”

“Oh! Oh! What about ‘words without experience are meaningless’?” Ned asks excitedly.

“Wow! Savage!” I giggle. I love Ned, he’s so loyal and supportive. I repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Ned hands me a glass of champagne.

“To the end of exams,” he grins.

“To the end of exams –  _and_  excellent results.” We clink glasses and drink.

 

The bar is loud and hectic, full of college skunks out to get trashed. Flash joins us, and I can already see he’s in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.

“So what now Pete?” Flash shouts at me over the noise.

“Ned and I are moving to Manhattan. Ned’s parents have bought a condo there for him.”

“Dios mio, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my show.”

“Of course, Flash, I wouldn’t miss it.” I smile, and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close.

“It means a lot to me that you’ll be there Pete,” he whispers in my ear. “Another margarita?”

“Eugine Thompson – are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it’s working.” I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go get us a pitcher.”

“More drink, Pete!” Ned bellows.

Ned has the constitution of an ox. He’s got his arm draped over girl, one of our fellow English students and his usual photographer on his student newspaper. She’s given up taking photos of the drunkenness that surrounds her. She only has eyes for Ned. He’s all tidy, tight jeans, and nice polished social shoes, his casual stunning self. Me, I’m more of a Converse and t-shirt kind of boy, but I’m wearing my most flattering jeans. I move out of Flash’s hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails are not a good idea.

I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the boy’s room while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Pete. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a pungent stench and vomit everywhere, but it still has a line. I sigh, peeing in the woods sounds like a way more flattering idea. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of pondering on what to do. Hmm… Who did I last call? Was it Flash? Before that a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Stark, I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is, maybe I’ll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the automatic re-dial. He answers on the second ring.

“Peter?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to ring him. Then my befuddled brain registers… how does he know it’s me?

“Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him.

“Peter, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is filled with concern.

“I’m not the strange one, you are, Mr. strange” I accuse. There - that told him, my courage fuelled by alcohol.

“Peter, have you been drinking? How did you manage to buy alcohol at eighteen?”

“Oh, why’s that? Are you going to punish me, daddy? After all, I probably am just a silly, naïve little boy to you, huh?”

I can hear him swallowing hard at my teasing on the other side, but he doesn’t reply anything than:

“Where are you?”

“In a bar.”

“Which bar?” He sounds exasperated.

“A bar in Brooklyn.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.

“Which bar are you in?”

“Why did you send me the books, Tony?”

“Peter, where are you, tell me now.” His tone is so, so dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.

“You’re so… bossy,” I giggle.

“Peter, so help me, where the fuck are you?”

Tony Stark is swearing at me. “Wow there. That’s one for the swear jar, am I right, dad?” I giggle again. “I’m in Brooklyn… s’a long way from Manhattan.”

“Where in Brooklyn?”

“Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

“Peter!”

I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s like – feeling like myself again. Yeah, I’m a  _kid_  and now I just don’t care about it! The line has moved, and it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the toilet door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Tony Stark? Shit. I stagger, completely forgetting my previous nonchalant way of thinking in just two seconds. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise.

“Hi,” I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this. It’s like I’m feeling lucid again for a split second, and ashamed for what I did sooner.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says and hangs up. Only Tony Stark could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.

Crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me? Oh no. I’m going to be sick… no… I’m fine. Hang on. He’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell him where I was. Wait, did I?  _Shit, shit, shit!_  He can’t find me here. Besides, it will take him some time to get here from Manhattan, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror. I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm… tequila.

I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer, show the clerk my fake ID and eventually return to the table.

“You’ve been gone so long.” Ned scolds me. “Where were you?”

“In a line.”

Flash and Levi are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. Flash pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip.

“Ned, I think I’d better step outside and get some air.”

“Pete, you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Five minutes.”

I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseous, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual.

Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am. My vision has been affected, and I’m really seeing double of everything like in old re-runs of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up?

“Pete,” Flash has joined me. “You okay?”

“I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at him.

“Me too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are watching me intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me.

“Flash I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try and push him away rather feebly.

“Pete, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms, pulling me close.

“Flash,  _what_  are you doing?” My voice tone thickens.

“You know I like you Pete, please.” He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck… he’s going to kiss me.

“No Flash, stop – no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s holding my head in place.

“Please, Pete,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet – of margarita and beer. He gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating.

“Flash, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend, and I think I’m going to throw up.

“I think the gentleman said no.” A voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Tony Stark, he’s here. How? Flash releases me.

“Stark,” he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Tony. He’s glowering at Flash, and he’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground.

“Ugh – Gosh, Peter!” Flash jumps back in disgust. Stark holds me back and gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness.

“If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you, don’t worry.” He has one arm around my shoulders, the other is holding my head, patting the back of my hair soothingly – the gesture feels familiar, warm and fuzzy all at once. I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again… and again. How long is this going to last? I vow silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops.

My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up – turns out vomiting profusely is exhausting. Stark takes his hands off me and passes me a handkerchief. Of course he has a monogrammed, freshly laundered, linen handkerchief. AES. I didn’t know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the E stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I’m swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here.

Flash is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember a worse one – and I can only come up with Tony’s rejection – and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk a peek at him. He’s staring down at me, his face composed, giving nothing away. Turning, I glance at Flash who looks pretty shamefaced himself and, like me, intimidated by Stark. I glare at him. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of which I can repeat in front of Tony Stark CEO. Pete who are you kidding, he’s just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local flora. There’s no disguising your lack of gentlemanlike behavior.

“I’ll err… see you inside,” Flash mutters, but we both ignore him, and he slinks off back into the building. I’m on my own with Stark. Double crap. What should I say to him? Apologize for the phone call? Or for drinking and practically obliging him to come here? Or all of the above?

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at the handkerchief which I am furiously worrying with my fingers. It’s so soft.

“What are you sorry for Peter?”

Of course, he wants his damned pound of flesh.

“The phone call mainly, being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” I murmur, feeling my skin coloring up. Please, please can I die now?

“Well, we’ve all been here, perhaps not as dramatically as you,” he says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Peter. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. You’re not even twenty-one yet.”

My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell has it got to do with him? I didn’t invite him here. This all sounds like a middle-aged man scolding an misbehaving child – oh, wait… It is. Part of me wants to say, that it’s my decision and that he’s not my dad – but I’m not brave enough. Not now that I’ve thrown up in front of him. Why is he still standing there?

“I don’t care,” I say, shrugging contritely.

I just don’t understand why he’s here. I begin to feel faint. He notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into his arms, holding me close to his chest like a child.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” he murmurs.

“I need to tell Ned.” Holy Moses, I’m in his arms again.

“Happy can tell him. He was with me when you phoned.”

“In Manhattan?” I’m confused.

“No, I’m staying at the Pennsylvania.”

Still? Why?

“How did you find me?”

“I’m one of the world’s best engineering, Peter.”

_And what the fuck is that supposed to mean now, Mr. Cocky?_

My face must reflect my confusion since he states, “Jarvis, my AI, tracked your call.”

Oh, of course it did. How is that possible? Is it legal? Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still floating in my brain, but somehow, because it’s him, I don’t mind.

“Do you came with a jacket or something?”

“Err… yes. Tony, please, I need to tell Ned. I don’t want him to worry.” His mouth presses into a hard line, and he sighs heavily.

“Go do your thing.”

He sets me down, and, taking my hand, leads me back into the bar. I feel weak, still drunk, embarrassed, exhausted, mortified, and on some strange level absolutely off the scale thrilled. He’s clutching my hand – such a confusing array of emotions. I’ll need at least a week to process them all.

It’s noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large crowd on the dance floor. Ned is not at our table, and Flash has disappeared. Levi looks lost and forlorn on his own.

“Where’s Ned?” I shout at Levi above the noise. My head is beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music.

“Dancing,” Levi shouts, and I can tell he’s mad. He’s eyeing Tony suspiciously. I struggle back into my red and blue hoodie. I’m ready to go, once I’ve seen Ned.

“He’s on the dance floor,” I touch Tony’s arm and lean up and shout in his ear, brushing his hair with my nose, smelling his clean, fresh smell. Oh my. All those forbidden, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried to deny surface and run amok through my drained body. I flush, and somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously.

He rolls his eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to the bar. He’s served immediately, no waiting for Mr. Control-Freak Stark. Does everything come so easily to him? I can’t hear what he orders. He hands me a very large glass of iced water.

“Drink,” he shouts his order at me.

The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting strange colored light and shadows all over the bar and the clientele. He’s alternately green, blue, white, and a demonic red. He’s watching me intently. I take a tentative sip.

“All of it,” he shouts.

He’s so overbearing. He runs his hand through his unruly hair. He looks frustrated, angry. What is his problem? What is  _mine_  actually? Obedient as a shadow, I do as I’m told and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass from me, he places it on the bar. I notice through a blur what he’s wearing; a loose black linen shirt, social pants, black sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I see a sprinkling of hair in the gap. In my groggy frame of mind, he looks yummy.

He takes my hand once more. Is he leading me onto the dance floor? Shit. I do not dance. He can sense my reluctance, and under the colored lights, I can see his amused, slightly sardonic smile. He gives my hand a sharp tug, and I’m in his arms again, and he starts to move, taking me with him. Boy, he can dance, and I can’t believe that I’m following him step for step. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk that I can keep up. He’s holding me tight against him, his body against mine… if he wasn’t clutching me so tightly, I’m sure I would swoon at his feet.

He moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other side of the dance floor, and we are beside Ned and Happy, both of them casually talking. Tony leans over and shouts in Happy’s ear. I cannot hear what he says. My thoughts crash through my brain, fighting the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It’s so warm in here, so loud, so colorful – too bright. My head begins to swim, oh no… and I can feel the floor coming up to meet my face or so it feels. The last thing I hear before I pass out in Tony Stark’s arms is his harsh epithet.

“Fuck!”

 


	5. Chapter 5

It’s very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. I open my eyes, and for a moment, I’m tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It’s oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beige. I have seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I’m in the Pennsylvania hotel… in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Ned. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I’m in Tony Stark’s suite. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, oh no the drinking, the phone call, oh no the phone call, the vomiting, oh no the vomiting. Flash and then Tony. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don’t remember coming here. I’m wearing my t-shirt and undies. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don’t feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It’s thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviving an arid mouth.

There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.

Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. Tony Stark’s sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes then I’m not really here.

“Morning, kid. How are you feeling?”

Oh no.

“Better,” I mumble.

I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He’s staring at me, brown eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what he’s thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

“How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite.

He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my… sweat and body wash and Tony, it’s a heady cocktail - so much better than last night’s margarita.

“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here,” he says phlegmatically.

“Did you put me to bed?”

“Yes.” His face is impassive.

“Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter.

“No.”

“Did you undress me?” I whisper.

“Yes.” He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

“We didn’t,” I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands.

“Peter, you were down for the count. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my boys sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.

“I’m so sorry.”

His mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.

“It was a very entertaining evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.”

Me neither – oh he’s laughing at me, the bastard. I didn’t ask him to come and get me. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like the villain of the piece.

“You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond stuff you’re developing,” I snap at him. He stares at me, surprised, and if I’m not mistaken, a little wounded.

“Firstly, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet. Secondly, if I hadn’t come to get you, you’d probably be waking up in the photographer’s bed, and from what I can remember, you weren’t overly enthused about him pressing his suit,” he says acidly.

 _Pressing his suit!_ I glance up at Tony, he’s glaring at me, his eyes blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my laughter.

“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?” I giggle. “You sound like a courtly knight.”

His mood visibly shifts. His eyes soften and his expression warms, and I see a trace of a smile on his beautifully chiseled lips.

“I don’t think so. More like Dark Knight, maybe.” His smile is sardonic, and he shakes his head.

“You _do_ look like some wicked, real-life version of Bruce Wayne, you know that?” I chortle. “Ever thought about cosplaying?”

“What is… ‘ _cosplaying_ ’?” He furrows his brow at me.

 _Oh, yeah…_ Reality comes to check, and there goes every single cent of my amusement as I remember the implications of our bond (if you can call it that). _He’s too old for my world._

“Nevermind.” I face away, constricted.

 “Did you eat last night?” he tergiversates after a beat, his tone is accusatory. I shake my head. What major transgression have I committed now? His jaw clenches, but his face remains impassive.

“You need to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly Peter, it’s drinking rule number one.” He runs this hand through his hair, and I know it’s because he’s exasperated.

“Are you going to continue to scold me?”

“Is that so wrong?”

“I think so.”

“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”

“What do you mean?”

He smirks.

“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” He closes his eyes, dread etched on his lovely face, and he shudders slightly. When he opens his eyes, he glares at me. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.”

I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What’s it to him? If I was his… well I’m not. Though maybe, part of me would like to be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at his high-handed words.

“I would have been fine. I was with Ned.”

“And the photographer?” he snaps at me.

Hmm… Flash. I’ll need to face him at some point.

“Flash just got out of line.” I shrug.

“Well the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners.”

“You are quite the stickler,” I hiss at him.

“Oh, Peter, you have no idea.” His eyes narrow, and then he grins wickedly. It’s disarming. One minute, I’m confused and angry, the next I’m gazing at his gorgeous smile. Wow… I am entranced, and it’s because his smile is so rare. I quite forget what he’s talking about.

“I’m going to have a shower. Unless you’d like to shower first?” He cocks his head to one side, still grinning. My heartbeat has picked up, and my brain has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe. His grin widens, and he reaches over and runs his thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip.

“Breathe, kid,” he whispers and rises. “Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be starving.” He heads into the bathroom and closes the door.

I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. Why is he so damned attractive? Right now I want to go and join him in the shower. I have never felt this way about anyone. My hormones are racing. My skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lip. I feel like squirming with a needy, achy… discomfort. I don’t understand this reaction. Hmm… Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.

I lie back on the soft feather filled pillows. ‘If you were mine.’ Oh my – what would I do to be his? He’s the only man who has ever set my blood racing around my body. Yet, he’s so antagonizing too; he’s difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me three-hundred-thousand-dollar books, then he tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He’s not a dark knight at all.

I scramble out of his bed frantically searching for my jeans. He emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower, still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist, and there am I – all bare legs and awkward gawkiness. He’s surprised to see me out of bed.

“If you’re looking for your jeans, I’ve sent them to the laundry.” His gaze is a dark obsidian. “They were spattered with your vomit.”

“Oh.” I flush scarlet. Why oh why does he always catch me on the back foot?

“I sent Happy out for another pair and some shoes. They’re in the bag on the chair.”

Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.

“Um… I’ll have a shower,” I mutter. “Thanks.” What else can I say? I grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the unnerving proximity of naked Tony. Michelangelo’s David has nothing on him.

In the bathroom, it’s all hot and steamy from where he’s been showering. I strip off my clothes and quickly clamber into the shower anxious to be under the cleansing stream of water. It cascades over me, and I hold up my face into the welcoming torrent. I want Tony Stark. I want him badly. Simple fact. For the first time in my life, I want to go to bed with a man. I want to feel his hands and his mouth on me.

He said he likes his _boys_ sentient. He’s not celibate then, that’s for sure. But he’s not made a pass at me, unlike Paul or Flash. I don’t understand. Does he want me? He wouldn’t kiss me last week. Am I repellent to him? And yet, I’m here and he brought me here. I just don’t know what his game is? What he’s thinking? You’ve slept in his bed all night, and he’s not touched you Pete. You do the math.

The water is warm and soothing. I feel like I could stay under this shower, in his bathroom, forever. I reach for the body-wash and it smells of him. It’s a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself, fantasizing that it’s him - him rubbing this heavenly scented soap into my body, across my chest, over my stomach, between my thighs with his long fingered hands. Oh my. My heartbeat picks up again, this feels so… so good.

“Breakfast is here.” He knocks on the door, startling me.

“Okay,” I stutter as I’m yanked cruelly out of my daydream.

I climb out of the shower and grab a towel.  Hastily, I dry myself, ignoring the pleasurable feel of the towel rubbing against my over-sensitized skin.

I inspect the bag of jeans. Not only has Happy brought me jeans and new Converse, but a pale blue t-shirt, socks, and underwear. Oh my. Clean undies – actually to describe them in such a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They look to have been brought from the kids’ section. A vivid red-and-blue patterned brief stamped with drawings of little cutesy spiders. Wow. I am in awe and slightly daunted by the choosing this underwear ( _what a fucking pervert!_ )… What’s more, they fit perfectly. But of course they do. I flush to think of the Buzz-Cut man in some kids store buying this for me. I wonder what else is in his job description.

I dress quickly. The rest of the clothing is a perfect fit. I brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under control. But, as usual, it refuses to cooperate. I take a deep breath. Time to face Mr. Confusing.

I’m relieved to find the bedroom empty. Taking another deep breath, I enter the living area of the suite. It’s huge. There’s an opulent, plush seating area, all overstuffed couches and soft cushions, an elaborate coffee table with a stack of large glossy books, a study area with a top-of-the-range Mac, an enormous plasma screen TV on the wall, and Tony is sitting at a dining table on the other side of the room reading a newspaper. It’s the size of a tennis court or something, not that I play tennis, though I have watched Ned a few times. Ned!

“Crap, Ned,” I croak. Tony peers up at me.

“He knows you’re here and still alive,” he says with just a trace of humor.

What’s he going to think about me being here? I’ve never stayed out before. He’s going to think I’ve had a one-night stand.

Tony stares at me imperiously. He’s wearing a dark red linen shirt, collar and cuffs undone.

“Sit,” he commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my way across the room and sit down opposite him as I’ve been directed. The table is laden with food.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu.” He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.

“That’s very cool of you,” I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry.

“Yes, it is.” He sounds guilty.

I opt for pancakes, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Tony tries to hide a smile as he returns to his egg white omelet. The food is delicious.

“Tea?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

He passes me a small teapot of hot water and on the saucer is a Twining’s English Breakfast teabag. Jeez, he remembers how I like my tea.

“Your hair’s very damp, you’ll be getting a cold this way,” he scolds.

“I couldn’t find a hairdryer,” I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I looked.

Tony’s mouth presses into a hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Thank you for the clothes, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s a pleasure, Peter. That color suits you.”

I blush and stare down at my fingers.

“You know, you really should learn to take a compliment.” His tone is castigating.

“I should give you some money for these clothes.”

He glares at me as if I have offended him on some level. I hurry on.

“You’ve already given me the comics, which, of course, I can’t accept. But these clothes, please let me pay you back.” I smile tentatively at him.

“Peter, trust me, I can afford it.”

“That’s not the point. Why should you buy these for me?”

“Because I can,” his eyes flash with a wicked gleam.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean that you should,” I reply quietly as he arches an eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling, and suddenly I feel that we’re talking about something else, but I don’t know what it is. Which reminds me…

“Why did you send me the books, Tony?” My voice is soft. He puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his brunet eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion. My mouth dries.

“Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist – and I was holding you and you were looking up at me – all kiss me, kiss me, Tony,” he pauses and shrugs slightly, “I felt I owed you an apology and a explanation.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Peter, if we were in a relationship, it wouldn’t be pretty. Not for us. Not for anyone else. I’m not a hearts and flowers kind of man, I don’t do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear from me.” He closes his eyes as if in defeat. “There’s something about you, though, and I’m finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you’ve figured that out already.”

My appetite vanishes in order to something else entirely different take complete control over me. A daunting feeling of fuzziness spreads across my twisting guts — a penetrating rapture of flatter and fear. Not ever, not a damn single time in my entire life I have heard something like this coming from another man. Nonetheless, a man I undeniably cherished. I’ve always seen myself as the one running towards not being abandoned by a strong male figure, not the opposite. I’ve always been the one to feel impossible to stay away from someone. And I’ve always been the one longing to find the one who would happen to feel the same. And always not having my expectations fulfilled, always being left alone at the end. And now it’s here. It’s him. Stark. He wants me to stay. _I_ want _him_ to stay. He can’t leave! Ever. He can _not_ stay away!

“Then don’t,” I whisper in a jolt, rapidly refusing the likelihood of his say as if I’m scared of it becoming a reality if I don’t deny it out loud as soon as possible. “Don’t fight it. Please, Mr. Stark, don’t ever leave me.”

He gasps, his eyes wide in pure shock, jaw slack. It’s the first time I see this expression on him. My words manage to affect him that way.

“Kid… you have _no idea_ what you’re saying.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

We sit gazing at each other, neither of us touching our food.

“Guess you’re not celibate or straight then,” I breathe.

Amusement lights up his brown eyes.

“No, Peter, far from both.” He pauses for this information to sink in, and I flush scarlet. The mouth-to-brain filter is broken again. I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud.

“What are your plans for the next few days?” he asks, his voice low.

“I’m working today, from midday. What is the time?” I panic suddenly.

“It’s just after ten, you’ve plenty of time. What about tomorrow?” He has his elbows on the table, and his chin is resting on his long steepled fingers.

“Ned and I are going to start packing. We’re moving next weekend, and I’m working at Clayton’s all this week.”

“You have a place in Manhattan already?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I can’t remember the address, but it’s close to Bryant Park.”

“Not far from me,” his lips twitch up in a half smile. “So what are you going to do for work?”

Where is he going with all these questions? The Tony Stark Inquisition is almost as irritating as the Edward Leeds Inquisition.

“I’ve applied for some internships. I’m waiting to hear.”

“Have you applied to my company as I suggested?”

I flush… of course not.

“Um… no.”

“And what’s wrong with my company?”

“Your company or your Company?” I smirk.

He smiles slightly.

“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Parker?” He cocks his head to one side, and I think he looks amused, but it’s hard to tell. I flush and glance down at my unfinished breakfast. I can’t look him in the eye when he uses that tone of voice.

“I’d like to bite that lip,” he whispers darkly.

I am completely unaware that I am chewing my bottom lip. My mouth pops open as I gasp and swallow at the same time. That has to be the sexiest thing anybody has ever said to me yet. My heart beat spikes, and I think I’m panting. Jeez, I’m a quivering, moist mess, and he hasn’t even touched me. I squirm in my seat and meet his dark glare.

“Why don’t you?” I challenge quietly.

“Because I’m not going to touch you Peter - not until I have your written consent to do so.” His lips hint at a smile.

_What?_

“What?”

“Exactly what I said.” He sighs and shakes his head at me, amused, but exasperated too. “I need to show you, Peter. What time do you finish work this evening?”

“About eight.”

“Well, we could go to Manhattan this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I’ll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?” I sound petulant.

“Because I’m enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you’re enlightened, you probably won’t want to see me again.”

Holy shit. What does that mean? Does he white-slave small children to some God-forsaken part of the planet? Is he part of some underworld crime syndicate? It would explain why he’s so rich. Is he deeply religious? Is he impotent? Surely not, he could prove that to me right now. I flush scarlet thinking about the possibilities. This is getting me nowhere. I’d like to solve the riddle that is Tony Stark sooner rather than later. If it means that whatever secret he has is so gross that I don’t want to know him any more then, quite frankly, it will be a relief. Don’t lie to yourself – my subconscious yells at me– it’ll have to be pretty bloody bad to have you running for the hills.

“Tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow and I can see him stifling a laugh.

 “Are you smirking at me, Mr. Stark?” I ask sweetly. Pompous ass.

He narrows his eyes at me and picks up his BlackBerry. He presses one number.

“Happy. I’m going to need Charlie Tango.”

Charlie Tango! Who’s he?

“From Malibu at say twenty-thirty... No, standby at Escala… All night.”

All night!

“Yes. On call tomorrow morning. I’ll pilot to Malibu.”

Pilot?

“Standby pilot from twenty-two-thirty.” He puts the phone down. No please or thank you.

“Do people always do what you tell them?”

“Usually, if they want to keep their jobs,” he says, deadpan.

“And if they don’t work for you?”

“I can be very persuasive, Peter. You should finish your breakfast. And then I’ll drop you home. I’ll pick you up at Clayton’s at eight when you finish. We’ll fly up to my place in California.”

I blink at him rapidly.

“Fly?” _California?_

“Yes. I have a jet.”

I gape at him. I have my second date with Tony oh-so-mysterious Stark. From coffee to jet rides. Wow.

“We’ll go by jet to your house?! All the way to California?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He grins wickedly.

“Because I can. Finish your breakfast.”

How can I eat now? I’m going to Mr. Stark’s mansion in Malibu. By jet. And he wants to bite my lip… I squirm at the thought.

“Eat,” he says more sharply. “Peter, I have an issue with wasted food… eat.”

“I can’t eat all this.” I gape at what’s left on the table.

“Eat what’s on your plate. If you’d eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be declaring my hand so soon.” His mouth sets in a grim line. He looks angry.

I frown and return to my now cold food. I’m too excited to eat, Tony. Don’t you understand? My subconscious explains. But I’m too much of a coward to voice these thoughts aloud, especially when he looks so sullen. Hmm, like a small boy. I find the thought amusing.

“What’s so funny?” he asks. I shake my head, not daring tell him and keep my eyes on my food. Swallowing my last piece of pancake, I peek up at him. He’s eyeing me speculatively.

“Good boy,” he says. “I’ll take you home when you’ve dried your hair. I don’t want you getting ill.” There’s some kind of unspoken promise in his words. What does he mean? I leave the table, wondering for a moment if I should ask permission but dismissing the idea. Sounds like a dangerous precedent to set. I head back to his bedroom. A thought stops me.

“Where did you sleep last night?” I turn to gaze at him still sitting in the dining room chair. I can’t see any blankets or sheets out here – perhaps he’s had them tidied away.

“In my bed,” he says simply, his gaze impassive again.

“Oh.”

“Yes, it was quite a novelty for me too.” He smiles.

“Not having… sex.” There – I said the word. I blush – of course.

“No,” he shakes his head and frowns as if recalling something uncomfortable. “Sleeping with someone.” He picks up his newspaper and continues to read.

What in heaven’s name does that mean? He’s never slept with anyone? He’s a virgin? Somehow I doubt that. I stand staring at him in disbelief. He is the most mystifying person I’ve ever met. And it dawns on me that I have slept with Tony Stark, and I kick myself – what would I have given to be conscious to watch him sleep. See him vulnerable. Somehow, I find that hard to imagine. Well, allegedly all will be revealed tonight.

In his bedroom, I hunt through a chest of drawers and find the hair dryer. Using my fingers, I dry my hair the best I can. When I’ve finished, I head into the bathroom. I want to clean my teeth. I eye Tony’s toothbrush. It would be like having him in my mouth. Glancing guiltily over my shoulder at the door, I feel the bristles on the toothbrush. They are damp. He must have used it already. Grabbing it quickly, I squirt toothpaste on it and brush my teeth in double quick time. I feel so naughty. It’s such a thrill.

Grabbing my t-shirt and jeans from yesterday, I put them in the shopping bag that Happy brought and head back to the living area to hunt for my hoodie. I feel his eyes follow me as I sit down and wait for him to finish. He’s on his BlackBerry talking to someone.

“They want two?… How much will that cost?... Okay, and what safety measures do we have in place?… And they’ll go via Suez?… How safe is Ben Sudan?... And when do they arrive in Darfur?... Okay, let’s do it. Keep me abreast of progress.” He hangs up. “Ready to go?”

I nod. I wonder what his conversation was about. He slips on a navy pinstriped jacket, picks up his car keys, and heads for the door.

“After you, Mr. Parker,” he murmurs, opening the door for me. He looks so casually elegant.

I pause, fractionally too long, drinking in the sight of him. And to think I slept with him last night and, after all the tequila and the throwing up, he’s still here. What’s more, he wants to take me to California. Why me? I don’t understand it. I head out the door recalling his words – _There’s something about you_ – Well the feeling is entirely mutual Mr. Stark, and I aim to find out what it is.

We walk in silence down the corridor towards the elevator. As we wait, I peek up at him through my lashes, and he looks out of the corner of his eyes down at me. I smile, and his lips twitch.

The elevator arrives, and we step in. We’re alone. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, possibly our proximity in such an enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes, charging with an electric, exhilarating anticipation. My breathing alters as my heart races. His head turns fractionally towards me, his eyes darkest slate. I bite my lip.

“Oh, fuck the paperwork,” he growls. He lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in one of his in a vice-like grip above my head, and he’s pinning me to the wall using his hips. Holy shit. His other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine. It’s only just not painful. I moan into his mouth, giving his tongue an opening — his taste a perfect combination of scotch and coffee (that somehow, on him, tastes _great_ ). He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring my mouth. I have never been kissed like this. My tongue tentatively strokes his and joins his in a slow dance that’s all about touch and sensation, all bump and grind. He brings his hand up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I am helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and his hips restraining me. . I feel his erection against my belly. Oh my… He wants me. _I_ want him. Here… now, in the elevator.

“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs, each word a staccato.

The elevator stops, the doors open, and he pushes away from me in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging. Three men in business suits look at both of us and smirk as they climb on board. My heart rate is through the roof, I feel like I’ve run an uphill race. I want to lean over and grasp my knees… but that’s just too obvious.

I glance up at him. He looks so cool and calm, like he’s been doing the New York Times crosswords. How unfair. Is he totally unaffected by my presence? He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and he gently blows out a deep breath. Oh, he’s affected all right. The businessmen exit on the second floor. We have one more floor to travel.

“You’ve brushed your teeth,” he says, staring at me.

“I used your toothbrush,” I breathe.

His lips quirk up in a half smile.

“Oh, Peter Parker, what am I going to do with you?”

The doors open at the first floor, and he takes my hand and pulls me out.

“What is it about elevators?” he mutters, more to himself than to me as he strides across the lobby. I struggle to keep pace with him because my wits have been thoroughly, royally, scattered all over the floor and walls of elevator three in the Pennsylvania Hotel.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony opens the passenger door to the black Audi SUV, and I clamber in. It’s a beast of a car. He hasn’t mentioned the outburst of passion that exploded in the elevator. Should I? Should we talk about it or pretend that it didn’t happen? It hardly seems real, my first proper no-holds-barred kiss. As time ticks on, I assign it mythical, Arthurian legend, Lost City of Atlantis status. It never happened, it never existed. Perhaps I imagined it all. No. I touch my lips, swollen from his kiss. It definitely happened. I feel definitely changed. I want this man, desperately, and he wanted me.

I glance at him. Tony is his usual polite, slightly distant self.

How confusing.

He starts the engine and reverses out of his space in the parking lot. He switches on the MP3 player. The car interior is filled with the unmistakable, rocking beat of AC/DC. Oh wow… all my senses are in disarray. Stark is not just a good-looking man, but a good-looking man with a great music taste. It sends delicious shivers up my spine. Tony pulls out on to the avenue, and he drives with easy, lazy confidence.

“ _Shoot to thrill_ , huh, Mr. Stark? Nice!”

His eyes widen under the furrowed brow. “Do you _know_ it?”

“I’m young, Tony, not uncultured.”

He grins, glancing at me. He looks sparingly proud, and sly. “Is great, isn’t it?” And for a fleeting moment, he seems my age; young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Is this the key to him? Music? I sit and listen to the contagious electric guitar riffs, teasing and seducing me.

“It is.” I give him a spontaneous smile that, equal to his, holds onto a million of secret promises and thrilling expectations. “What more do you have?”

“Let’s find out.” Tony pushes a button, and the another music begins. It’s a gentle, slow, sweet, and sure assault on my aural senses.

“You like classical New York jazz?” I ask, hoping for a rare insight into his personal preferences.

“My taste is eclectic, Peter, everything from Miles Davis’ jazz to the blues of Muddy Waters. It depends on my mood. You?”

“I’m eclectic, too. Though I don’t know who those guys are.”

He turns and gazes at me briefly before his eyes are back on the road.

“I’ll play it for you sometime. They are famous composers.” Tony grins at me. “Listening to them is like traveling back in time to one of those saloons in black and white movies, you know.”

He presses a button, and the Jazz starts cascading between us. I peek at the song title in the LCD dash-screen _._ Jimmy O'Bryant’s _Mystery Man_. Well, that seems fitting. The music is interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing over the MP3 speakers. Tony hits a button on the steering wheel.

“Stark,” he snaps. He’s so brusque.

“Mr. Stark, it’s Potts here. I have the information you require.” A rasping, disembodied voice comes over the speakers.

“Good. Email it to me. Anything to add?”

“No sir.”

He presses the button, then the call ceases and the music is back. No goodbye or thanks. I’m so glad that I never seriously entertained the thought of working for him. I shudder at the very idea. He’s just too controlling and cold with his employees. The music cuts off again for the phone.

“Stark.”

“The NDA has been emailed to you, Mr. Stark.” Pepper’s voice again.

“Good. That’s all, Miss Potts.”

“Good day, Mr. Stark.”

Tony hangs up by pressing a button on the steering wheel. The music is on very briefly when the phone rings again. Holy hell, is this his life, constant nagging phone calls?

“Stark,” he snaps.

“Hi, Tony, d’you get laid?”

“Hello, Rhodey – I’m on speaker phone, and I’m not alone in the car,” Tony sighs.

“Who’s with you?”

Tony rolls his eyes.

“Peter Parker.”

“Hi, Pete!”

Pete!

“Hello... Rhodey?”

“Heard a lot about you,” Rhodey murmurs huskily. Tony frowns.

 “I’m dropping Peter off now.” Tony emphasizes my name. “Shall I pick you up?”

“Sure.”

“See you shortly.” Tony hangs up, and the music is back.

“Why do you insist on calling me Peter?”

“Because it’s your name.”

“I prefer Pete.”

“Do you now?” he murmurs.

We are almost at my apartment. It’s not taken long.

“Peter,” he muses. I scowl at him, but he ignores my expression. “What happened in the elevator - it won’t happen again, well, not unless it’s premeditated.”

He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked me where I live - yet he knows. But then he sent the books, of course he knows where I live. What able, cell-phone-tracking, jet owning, stalker wouldn’t.

Why won’t he kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don’t understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Stark. He climbs out of the car, walking with easy, long-legged grace round to my side to open the door, ever the gentleman - except perhaps in rare, precious moments in elevators. I flush at the memory of his mouth on mine, and the thought that I’d been unable to touch him enters my mind. I wanted to run my fingers through his decadent, untidy hair, his well-trimmed goatee, but I’d been unable to move my hands. I am retrospectively frustrated.

“I liked what happened in the elevator,” I murmur as I climb out of the car. I’m not sure if I hear an audible gasp, but I choose to ignore it and head up the steps to the front door.

 “Hi Pete,” says a girl, leaving my apartment. It’s the same girl Ned was hitting on back at the party. Wow, he actually took her home.

“Good morning, Tony,” she says, and her tone is a little hostile.

“Morning,” he says in his stiff formal way.

“Laters, baby,” she grins towards the ajar door, where Ned lies with a dumb, love-struck face.

Ned just melts just before she’s gone. I’ve never seen him melt before – the words comely and compliant come to mind. Compliant Ned, wow, this girl must be good. Tony rolls his eyes and stares down at me, his expression unreadable, although maybe he’s mildly amused. He tucks a stray strand of my hair that has worked its way free from my hair gel trap. My breath hitches at the contact, and I lean my head slightly into his fingers. His eyes soften, and he runs his thumb across my lower lip. My blood sears in my veins. And all too quickly, his touch is gone.

“Laters, baby,” he murmurs, and I have to laugh because it’s so unlike him. But even though I know he’s being irreverent, the endearment tugs at something deep inside me.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.” He turns to leave, stepping out of the corridor.

“So, did you…?” Ned asks as we watch Stark climb into the car and drive off, the burning curiosity evident in his voice.

“No,” I snap irritably, hoping that will halt the questions. We head back into the apartment. “You obviously did, though.” I can’t contain my envy. Ned always manages to ensnare women. He is perfect epitome of the irresistible, funny, cool-looking guy after all… all the things that I’m not. But his answering grin is infectious.

“And I’m seeing her again, by the way.” He raises an eyebrow. He cannot contain his annoying slyness and happiness, and I can’t help but feel happy for him even through the pang of envy.

“Tony is taking me to LA this evening.”

He freezes.

“What?”

“Yes.”

He’s mute for a brief second before saying, “Have you ever heard about human trafficking?”

“C’mon, Ned.”

“I mean it! How are you even crossing the whole other side of the country tonight?”

“He’ll pilot me.”

“‘Pilot’?”

“He’s giving me a lift in his private jet.”

For the first time in years of friendship, I’m capable of making Edward Leeds speechless. His shocked face is so new to me that makes me want to laugh out loud, take a picture and look at it over and over, making fun of it as if it is the funniest internet meme ever made.

“You like him then?”

“Yes.”

“Like him enough to… ?”

“Yes.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Wow. Pete Parker, finally falling for someone, and it’s Tony Stark – hot, sexy billionaire… Such _humble_ standards, huh?”

“Oh yeah – it’s all about the money.” I smirk, and we both fall into a fit of giggles.

“Is that a new blouse?” he asks, and I let him at that, heading to my room. “Has he kissed you yet?” he keeps investing. Too bad, I’m close to closing my bedroom now. “ _Peter Parker!_ Come back right this instant and—”

I close the door shut, muffling Ned’s partially annoyed, partially funny yells. I don’t want to have to deal with him right now. I’m still too stunned and confused by everything that has happened since last night. However, I am sure of something: that I want to take all the time of world in order to savor and have it all for myself.

 

The day drags at Clayton’s even though we’re busy. We’ve hit the summer season, so I have to spend two hours restocking the shelves once the shop is closed. It’s mindless work, and it gives me too much time to think. I’ve not really had a chance all day.

Once I’m home again, my body hair is shaved to perfection, my underdeveloped strands of a pseudo-beard removed, and I am smooth all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. Even through my bedroom closed door, Ned can’t seem to stop babbling, he texts me endlessly. For some strange reason, he doesn’t trust him, maybe because he’s so stiff and formal. He says he can’t put his finger on it, but I have promised to text him when I arrive in California.

I also have the Flash issue. He’s left three messages and seven missed calls on my cell. He’s also called home twice. Ned has been very vague as to where I am. Flash will know Ned is covering for me. Ned doesn’t do vague. But I have decided to let Thompson stew. I’m still too angry with him.

Tony mentioned some kind of written paperwork, and I don’t know if he was joking or if I’m going to have to sign something. It’s so frustrating trying to guess. And on top of all the angst, I can barely contain my excitement or my nerves. Tonight’s the night! After all this time, am I ready for this? I feel like I’m ready for anything with Tony Stark, but I still don’t understand what he sees in me… mousey, girly Pete Parker - it makes no sense.

He is punctual, of course, and waiting for me just as I step outside. He climbs out of the back of the Audi to open the door and smiles warmly at me.

“Good evening, Mr. Parker,” he says.

“Mr. Stark.” I nod politely to him as I climb into the backseat of the car. Happy is sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Hello, Happy,” I say.

“Good evening, Mr. Parker,” his voice is polite and professional. Tony climbs in the other side and clasps my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that I feel all the way though my body.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Very long,” I reply, and my voice is husky, too low, and full of need.

“Yes, it’s been a long day for me too.” His tone is serious.

“What did you do?” I manage.

“I went hiking with Rhodey.” His thumb strokes my knuckles, back and forth, and my heart skips a beat as my breathing accelerates. How does he do this to me? He’s only touching a very small area of my body, and the hormones are flying.

The drive to the airport is short and, before I know it, we arrive. I wonder where the fabled jet might be. We’re in a built-up area of the city and even I know jets need space to take off and land. Happy parks, climbs out, and opens my car door. Tony is beside me in an instant and takes my hand again.

“Ready?” he asks. I nod and want to say for anything, but I can’t articulate the words as I’m too nervous, too excited.

“Happy.” He nods curtly at his driver, and we head into the building, straight to a set of elevators. Elevator! The memory of our kiss this morning comes back to haunt me. I have thought of nothing else all day. Daydreaming at the register at Clayton’s. Twice Mr. Clayton had to shout my name to bring me back to Earth. To say I’ve been distracted would be the understatement of the year. Tony glances down at me, a slight smile on his lips. Ha! He’s thinking about it too.

“It’s only three floors,” he says dryly, his gray eyes dancing with amusement. He’s telepathic surely. It’s spooky.

I try to keep my face impassive as we enter the elevator. The doors close, and it’s there, the weird electrical attraction crackling between us, enslaving me. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to ignore it. He tightens his grip on my hand, and five seconds later the doors open on to the roof of the building. And there it is, a white helicopter with the name Stark Industries written in blue with the company logo on the side. Surely this is misuse of Company property.

He leads me to a small office where an old timer sits behind the desk. _Lee_ , says the name plate.

“Here’s your flight plan, Mr. Stark. All external checks are done. It’s ready and waiting sir. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, Stan.” Tony smiles warmly at him.

Oh. Someone deserving of the polite treatment from Tony, perhaps he’s not an employee. I stare at the old guy in awe. He smiles at me, and I naturally smile back. I can’t help it, he looks so gentle.

“Let’s go,” Tony says, and we make our way toward the plane. When we’re up close, it’s much bigger than I thought. A flight man opens the door and directs me to one of the seats at the very front.

“I know I said I would pilot, but I opted against it recently,” Tony says as he clambers in behind me.

“Why?”

The door shuts with a slam. “It’s a long drive, I thought about making our date begin while we still in here.” He takes me to our sit, where in settle facing each other, knees touching underneath a small table with two glasses filled with scotch. He’s so close and intent on what he’s doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would be in his hair. He smells, clean, fresh, heavenly. He glances up and smiles, like he’s enjoying his usual private joke, his brown eyes heated. He’s so tantalizingly close. I hold my breath as he pulls at one of the lap straps of my seat belt, his fingers gently scraping the fabric of my jeans.

“You’re secure, no escaping,” he whispers, his eyes are scorching. “Breathe, Peter,” he adds softly. Reaching up, he caresses my cheek, running his long fingers down to my chin which he grasps between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and plants a brief, chaste kiss on my lips, leaving me reeling, my insides clenching at the thrilling, unexpected touch of his lips.

“I like this harness,” he whispers.

What?

He sits down beside me and takes one of the beverage glasses away from my grasp. He pours my scotch to his own Old Fashioned.

“Hey!” I protest.

“Shush. I could go to jail only by letting you drink this. Jarvis!” he calls the flight man. “Orange juice for the gentleman here, please.”

“You’re a _booze_ killer.” It takes everything in me not to laugh from my own joke.

“Seriously?”

“It was worth the _shot_ ,” I giggle.

 “You don’t need to worry about not drinking whisky, it’s not winter yet.” He gives me a wolfish grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean now?”

“Well, the ideal drink to have during winter is the _brr-bon_ after all,” he adds and winks at me.

Did he just make a pun? Did he just wink?! Tony Stark, are you _okay_?!

I stay glancing him, large, silly smile stuck on my face.

“I’m old, Pete,” he continues, “not uncultured.”

Later, NY disappears in front us as we head into US airspace. Whoa! All the bright lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly below us. It’s like looking out from inside a fish bowl. Once we’re higher, there really is nothing to see. It’s pitch black, not even the moon to shed any light on our journey.

“Eerie isn’t it?” Tony’s voice is in my ears.

“I’ve always wondered how they know we’re going the right way.”

“The gauges,” he says. “This is a Gulfstream 650. One of the safest in its class. It’s equipped for night flight.” He glances and grins at me.

“There’s a landing point close to the building I live in. That’s where we’re heading.”

Of course there’s a landing runway where he lives. I am so out of my league here. His face is softly illuminated by the mood lightings. He’s concentrating hard, he looks so seductively mature sipping from his drink. I drink in his features from beneath my lashes. He has a beautiful profile. Straight nose, square jawed – I’d like to run my tongue along his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble makes the prospect doubly tempting. Hmm… I’d like to feel how rough it is beneath my tongue, my fingers, against my face.

“When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” he interrupts my erotic reverie.

“How long is left?” I manage breathlessly. I wasn’t thinking about sex at all, no, no way.

“Less than three hours, I believe.”

Hmm, less than three hours to Los Angeles…

I have less than three hours before the big reveal. All the muscles clench deep in my belly. I have a serious case of butterflies. They are flourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what has he got in store for me?

“You okay, Peter?”

“Yes.” My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my nerves.

I think he smiles, but it’s difficult to tell. Tony stretches his hand to touch mine.

“Look, over there.” He points to a small pin-point of light in the far distance, hours later. “I believe that’s LA.”

“Do you always impress your dates this way? Come and fly in my jet?” I ask, genuinely interested.

“I’ve never bought a date up here, Peter. A boy much less. It’s another first for me.” His voice is quiet, serious.

Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh the sleeping thing, perhaps?

“Are you bothered?” he says, his voice a little weak.

“What?! No! Of course not. I’m shook, Mr. Stark.”

He smiles.

“ _Shook_?” And for a brief moment, he’s his age again.

I nod.

“You’re just so… dedicated.”

“Why, thank you, Mr Parker,” he says politely. I think he’s pleased, but I’m not sure.

We ride into the dark night in silence for more minutes.

“We’re a few minutes from landing, sir,” says a weird, robotic voice from somewhere I don’t see. It seems to come from everywhere.

“Thank you, Jarvis, proceed with landing.”

“Do you enjoy this?” I murmur.

“What?” He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half-light of the instruments.

“Flying,” I reply.

“It requires control and concentration… how could I not love it? Though, my favorite is soaring.”

“Soaring?”

“Yes. Gliding to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters – I fly them both.”

“Oh.” Expensive hobbies. I remember him telling me during the interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies. I am out of my depth here.

The city is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow! It looks absolutely stunning. LA at night, from the sky…

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Tony murmurs.

I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly – unreal – and I feel like I’m on a giant film set, Flash’s favorite film maybe, ‘Bladerunner.’ The memory of Flash’s attempted kiss haunts me. I’m beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until tomorrow… surely.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Tony mutters, and suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. Oh my… I think I’m going to faint. My fate is in his hands.

We are now flying close to the coast, and far ahead I can see a tall mansion on a cliff with a landing spot close by. It’s getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger… like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him down. He’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Ned and borrowed one of his clothes, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint green shirt and a black jacket. I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I can do this. I chant this mantra as his house looms below us.

The airplane lands. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. I hear the sound of my own erratic breathing. Tony undoes his seat belt, and reaches across and pulls mine off too. His face is inches from mine.

“We’re here,” he says softly.

His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the landing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it’s a fitting metaphor for Tony. He looks strained. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are tight.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?” His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his gray eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.

“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Tony.” And as I say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction because at this moment in time – I’d probably do anything for this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.

He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he’s so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the landing site. It’s very windy on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least ten stories high in an unenclosed space. Tony wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.

“Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator shaft and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It’s warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Tony to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is, he’s holding me to infinity too. Tony taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.

Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings, everywhere. He opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It’s the main living area, double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a balcony that overlooks the sea.

To the right is an imposing ‘U’ shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless steel – or maybe platinum for all I know - modern fireplace. The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area. All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.

Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny brown… stuffed bunny?

“Is this normal?” I point to the gigantic rabbit plush.

“Yes, this is normal.” He rolls his eyes but then breaks his pace, as if stopping to reconsider something. “Do you like it?”

“Hm… yes, it is… very cute.” I smirk, not knowing what to do with my hands while we stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room, facing each other.

“It’s yours then.”

“ _Wha_?”

“Can I take your jacket?” Tony asks, diverging from the _rabbit_ -in-the-room. I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind on the helipad.

“Would you like to eat something?” he asks. I blink at him. For one second, I think about asking for a grilled cheese – but I don’t have the nerve.

“I’m up to some canapés; would you like to join me?”

“Yes, please,” I murmur.

I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style on to the balcony. Los Angeles is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area – it takes a few seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall – and Tony is opening a bottle of wine. He’s removed his jacket.

“Do you eat salmon?”

“Anything should be great, Mr. Stark.” My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing here - my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Tony Stark’s bed.

“Here.” He hands me a tray. Even the cutlery is rich… heavy, contemporary, crystal. I take a nibble, and the snack is light, crisp, and delicious.

“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact – I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Peter,” he murmurs. “What was the last time you ate?”

“I’m good. It’s a very big place you have here.”

“Big?”

“Big.”

“It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. Stark takes a sip from his wine.

“Is this house where you keep your projects? The mechanic stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

“Of course you can, baby. Anything.”

His words stir at the bottom of my belly. I can _taste_ the sweetness in them, so much it threatens to make me burst into a sugar rush.

“There it is.” Tony’s smile opens wide and proud as his eyes scan my face for a second time.

“What?”

“Your blush. Your adorable blushing face is back.”

I didn’t realize I was catching fire. I look away. Tony approaches me.

 “Don’t look away.” Just as my trademark blush, his dark, controlling tone returns.

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m struck by the fact that I feel like Dolores being sneakily lured by Humbert Humbert to his room in the middle of the night. The thought makes me smile.

“What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

“Why did you give me Lolita specifically?” I ask. Tony stares at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my question.

“Well, you said you liked classics.”

“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth presses into a hard line.

“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Dolores or debase you completely like Humbert,” he murmurs, and his brown eyes flash dark and dangerous.

“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

“Peter, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He frowns.

“Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?” He disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. He’s gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.

“This is a non-disclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it to me. I’m completely bemused. “If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”

“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”

“Then it’s Lolita high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”

“What does this agreement mean?”

“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”

I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to know.

“Okay. I’ll sign.”

He hands me a pen.

“Aren’t you even going to read it?”

“No.”

He frowns.

“Peter, you should always read anything you sign,” he admonishes me.

“Tony, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone, anyway. Even Ned. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer… whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.”

He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.

“Fair point well made, Mr Parker.”

I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. I’m sounding so much braver than I’m actually feeling.

“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Mr. Stark?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.

“No, Peter, it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified.

“You want to play Fortnite or something?” I quip. Unbelievably, he understands that reference since he laughs, loudly.

“No, Peter. Come.” He stands, holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.

“You can leave anytime. The plane is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.”

“Just open the damn door, Tony.”

He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.

And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.

Holy moly.


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing I notice is the smell; leather, wood, polish with a faint citrus scent. It’s very pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle. In fact, I can’t see the source, but it’s around the cornice in the room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark burgundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room, and the floor is old, old varnished wood. There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s made of high-polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements.

Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers, each drawer slim as if designed to contain specimens in a crusty old museum. I wonder briefly what the drawers actually do hold. Do I want to know? In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths. There’s a stout six-foot-long table in the opposite corner – polished wood with intricately carved legs – and two matching stools underneath.

But what dominates the room is a bed. It’s bigger than king-size, an ornately carved rococo four-poster with a flat top. It looks late nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can see more gleaming chains and cuffs. There is no bedding... just a mattress covered in red leather and red satin cushions piled at one end.

At the foot of the bed, set apart a few feet, is a large oxblood chesterfield couch, just stuck in the middle of the room facing the bed. An odd arrangement… to have a couch facing the bed, and I smile to myself – I’ve picked on the couch as odd, when really it’s the most mundane piece of furniture in the room. I glance up and stare at the ceiling. There are karabiners all over the ceiling at odd intervals. I vaguely wonder what they’re for. Weirdly, all the wood, dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room kind of soft and romantic… I know it’s anything but, this is Tony’s version of soft and romantic.

I turn, and he’s regarding me intently as I knew he would be, his expression completely unreadable. I walk further into the room, and he follows me. The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It’s suede, like a small cat-of-nine-tails but bushier, and there are very small plastic beads on the end.

“It’s called a flogger,” Tony’s voice is quiet and soft.

A flogger… hmm. I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb. I can observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings about all this. What is the appropriate response to finding out a potential lover is a complete freaky sadist or masochist? Fear… yes… that seems to be the over-riding feeling. I recognize it now. But weirdly not of him – I don’t think he’d hurt me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my mind. Why? How? When? How often? Who? I walk towards the bed and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very sturdy, the craftsmanship outstanding.

“Say something,” Tony commands, his voice deceptively soft.

“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

“People?” He blinks a couple of times as he considers his answer. “I do this to boys who want me to.”

I don’t understand.

“If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

“Because I want to do this with you, very much.”

“Oh,” I gasp. Why?

I wander to the far corner of the room and pat the waist high padded bench and run my fingers over the leather. He likes to hurt boys. The thought depresses me.

“You’re a sadist?”

“I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching brown, intense.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea.

“Why would I do that?”

“To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile.

He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Tony Stark. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me.

“In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me,” he says softly. His voice is hypnotic.

“How do I do that?” My mouth is dry, and I wish I had the whisky from the jet to help me digest all this information more easily. Okay, I understand the pleasing bit, but I am puzzled by the soft-boudoir-Elizabethan-torture set up. Do I want to know the answer?

“I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I’ll reward you. If you don’t, I’ll punish you, and you will learn,” he whispers. I glance at the rack of canes as he says this.

“And where does all this fit in?” I wave my hand in the general direction of the room.

“It’s all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment.”

“So you’ll get your kicks by exerting your will over me.”

“It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy, even in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”

“Okay, and what do I get out of this?”

He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.

“Me,” he says simply.

Oh my. Tony rakes his hand through his hair as he gazes at me.

“You’re not giving anything away, Peter,” he murmurs, exasperated. “Let’s go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It’s very distracting having you in here.” He holds his hand out to me, and now I’m hesitant to take it.

Ned had said he was dangerous, he was so right. How did he know? He’s dangerous to my health, because I know I’m going to say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my league here.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Peter.” His auburn eyes implore, and I know he speaks the truth. I take his hand, and he leads me out of the door.

“If you do this, let me show you.” Rather than going back downstairs, he turns right out of the playroom, as he calls it, and down a corridor. We pass several doors until we reach the one at the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in white… everything, furniture, walls, bedding. It’s sterile and cold but with the most glorious view of the Californian ocean through the glass wall.

“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here.”

“My room? You’re expecting me to move in?” I can’t hide the horror in my voice.

“Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this,” he adds, his voice quiet and hesitant.

“I’ll sleep here?”

“Yes.”

“Not with you.”

“No, kid. I told you, I don’t sleep with anyone, except you, when you’re drunk as a skunk.” His eyes are reprimanding.

My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile. Kind, caring Tony, who rescues me from drunken frat parties and holds me gently while I’m throwing up into the azaleas, and the monster who possesses whips and chains in a special room.

“Where do you sleep?”

“My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry.”

“Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite,” I murmur petulantly.

“You must eat, Peter,” he admonishes and, taking my hand, leads me back downstairs.

Back in the impossibly big room, I am filled with deep trepidation. I am on the edge of a precipice, and I have to decide whether or not to jump.

“I’m fully aware that this is a dark path I’m leading you down, Peter, which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions,” he says as he wanders into the kitchen area, releasing my hand.

I do. But where to start?

“You’ve signed your NDA, you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer.”

I stand at the breakfast bar watching him as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate of different cheeses with two large bunches of green and red grapes. He sets the plate down on the worktop and proceeds to cut up a French baguette.

“Sit.” He points to one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, and I obey his command. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to get used to it. I realize he’s been this bossy since I met him.

“You mentioned paperwork.”

“Yes.”

“What paperwork?”

“Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won’t do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Peter.”

“And if I don’t want to do this?”

“That’s fine,” he says carefully.

“But we won’t have any sort of relationship?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why?”

“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interesting in.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“It’s the way I am.”

“How did you become this way?”

“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?.” He takes some large, white plates from a cupboard and places one in front of me.

We’re talking about cheese… What the fuck?

“What are your rules that I have to follow?”

“I have them written down. We’ll go through them once we’ve eaten.”

Food. How can I eat now?

“I’m really not hungry,” I whisper.

“You will eat,” he says simply. Dominating Tony, it all becomes clear. “Would you like another glass of juice? Or maybe water?”

“Yes. Water please.”

He pours water into my glass and comes to sit beside me. I take a hasty sip.

“Help yourself to food, Peter.”

I take a small bunch of grapes. This I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

“Have you been like this for a while?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is it easy to find people who want to do this?”

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“You’d be amazed,” he says dryly.

“Then why me? I really don’t understand.”

“Peter, I’ve told you. There’s something about you. I can’t leave you alone.” He smiles ironically. “I’m like a moth to a flame.” His voice darkens. “I want you very badly, especially now, when you’re biting your lip again.” He takes a deep breath and swallows.

My stomach somersaults – he wants me… in a weird way, true, but this beautiful, strange, kinky man wants me.

“I think you have that cliché the wrong way round.” I grumble. I am the moth and he is the flame, and I’m going to get burnt. I know.

“Eat!”

“No. I haven’t signed anything yet, so I think I’ll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that’s okay with you.”

His eyes soften, and his lips turn up in a smile.

“As you wish, Mr. Parker.”

“How many boys?” I blurt out the question, but I’m so curious.

“Fifteen.”

Oh… not as many as I thought.

“How old were they?”

“None of them underage, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His gaze darkens.

“Have you ever hurt anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Badly?”

“No.”

“Will you hurt me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Physically, will you hurt me?”

“I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful.”

I think I feel a little faint. I take another sip of my water. This isn’t helping. Gosh—How I wish I could have at least one glass of wine right now…

“Have you ever been beaten?” I ask.

“Yes.”

That surprises me. Before I can question him on this revelation further, he interrupts my train of thought.

“Let’s discuss this in my study. I want to show you something.”

This is so hard to process. Here I was foolishly thinking that I’d spend a night of unparalleled passion in this man’s bed, and we’re negotiating this weird arrangement.

I follow him into his study, a spacious room with another floor-to-ceiling window that opens out on to the balcony. He sits on the desk, motions for me to sit on a leather chair in front of him, and hands me a piece of paper.

“These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let’s discuss.”

RULES

Obedience:

The Submissive/“Son” will obey any instructions given by the Dominant/“Daddy” immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities which are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.

Sleep:

The Submissive/“Son” will ensure he achieves a minimum of seven hours sleep a night when he is not with his Dominant/“Daddy”.

Food:

The Submissive/“Son” will eat regularly to maintain his health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.

Clothes:

During the Term, the Submissive/“Son” will wear clothing only approved by his Dominant/“Daddy”. The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on an ad hoc basis. If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall during the Term any adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and any other time the Dominant deems fit.

Exercise:

The Dominant/“Daddy” shall provide the Submissive/“Son” with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s progress.

Personal Hygiene/Beauty:

The Submissive/“Son” will keep himself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant, and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit.

Personal Safety:

The Submissive/“Son” will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put himself in any unnecessary danger.

Personal Qualities:

The Submissive/“Son” will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than his Dominant/“Daddy”. The Submissive will conduct himself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. He must recognize that his behavior is a direct reflection on his Daddy. He shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.

Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.

Holy fuck.

“Hard limits?” I ask.

“Yes. What you won’t do, what I won’t do, we need to specify in our agreement.”

“I’m not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong.” I shift uncomfortably, the word ‘ho’ rattling round my head.

“I want to lavish money on you, let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you dressed well. I’m sure your salary, when you do get a job, won’t cover the kind of clothes I’d like you to wear.”

“I don’t have to wear them when I’m not with you?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Think of them as uniform.

“I don’t want to exercise four times a week.”

“Peter, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise.”

“But surely not four times a week, how about three?”

“I want you to do four.”

“I thought this was a negotiation?”

He purses his lips at me.

“Okay, kid, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?”

“Three days, three hours. I get the impression you’re going to keep me exercised when I’m here.”

He smiles wickedly, and his eyes glow as if relieved. “Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my company? You’re a good negotiator.”

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I stare down at his rules. Waxing! Waxing what? Everything? Ugh.

“So, limits. These are mine.” He hands me another piece of paper.

Hard Limits

No acts involving fire play

No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof

No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood

No acts involving medical instruments

No acts involving animals

Ugh. He has to write these down!

“Is there anything you’d like to add?” he asks kindly.

Crap. I’ve no idea. I am completely stumped. He gazes at me and furrows his brow.

“Is there anything you won’t do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

I squirm uncomfortably and bite my lip.

“I’ve never done anything like this.”

“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything that you didn’t like doing?”

For the first time in what seems to be ages, I blush.

“You can tell me, Peter. We have to be honest with each other or this isn’t going to work.”

I squirm uncomfortably again and stare at my knotted fingers.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“Well… I… I wouldn’t know.” My voice is small. I peek up at him, and he’s staring at me, mouth-open, frozen, and pale - _really_ pale.

“You’re a virgin?” he breathes. I nod, flushing again. He closes his eyes and looks to be counting to ten. When he opens them again, he’s angry, glaring at me.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he growls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this is it!


	8. Chapter 8

Tony is running both his hands through his hair and pacing up and down his study. Two hands – that’s double exasperation. His usual concrete control seems to have slipped a notch.

He never acted like this until now. And for a good reason apparently. I’m not prepared for this, since I see myself totally disarmed with his outburst.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” he castigates me.

“S-Sorry, Mr. Stark, is just that… the subject never came up.” My voice cracks, and I hate to hear how immature it sounds—how I have to explain myself to another adult. Suddenly I went from a grownup having to take a serious decision about my life to a defenseless pubescent teenager that doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I’m not in the habit of revealing my sex life to everyone I meet. I mean, we hardly know each other.” I’m staring at my hands. Why am I feeling guilty? Why is he so mad? I peek up at him.

“Well, you know a lot more about me now,” he snaps, his mouth presses into a hard line. “I knew you were inexperienced, but a virgin!” He says it like it’s a really dirty word. “Hell, Pete, I just showed you,” he groans. “May God forgive me. Have you ever been kissed, apart from by me?”

“Of course I have.” _Once_ , my inner voice laughs. _Twice if you count that fiasco that was your attempt at trying to have a fling that one time during High School._

“I just don’t understand.” Mr. Stark sighs, and finally turns around to face me again. Bending his knees, he sits down and scoots closer to me. His brown gaze — burning with an intensity which I don’t recognize — bores through me; the warmth of his desire carbonizes my entire body. “You’re eighteen, almost nineteen. You’re… you’re…” He runs his hand through his hair again.

“I am what?” The place from where I pluck the courage to say this aloud is beyond me. But I need to know it. Tony Stark never holds back any words. Then why is he doing it now? What is that he wanted to say?

“Beautiful,” he answers.

The heat from that thing that irradiates from his gaze _must_ have been replaced with ice. Because I now freeze. Stunned.

Beautiful.

I flush with pleasure. Tony Stark thinks I’m beautiful. I knot my fingers together, staring at them hard, trying to conceal my goofy grin.

“How have you avoided sex? Tell me, please.” His brows knit together. “Men must throw themselves at you.”

I shake my head, feeling strangely faint.

“Never one I’ve wanted.” Come up to scratch, only you. And you turn out to be some kind of monster. “Why are you so angry with me?” I whimper.

“I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with myself. I just assumed… ” He sighs. He regards me shrewdly and then shakes his head. “Do you want to go?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“No, unless you want me to go,” I murmur. Oh no… I don’t want to leave.

“Of course not. I like having you here.” He frowns as he says this and then glances at his watch. “It’s late.” And he turns to look at me. “You’re biting your lip.” His voice is husky, and he’s eyeing me speculatively.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s just that I want to bite it too, hard.”

I gasp… how can he say things like that to me and not expect me to be affected.

Before I can come up with something, his hand touches my chin. He’s cupping my face. He’s... gently brushing his thumb against my cheek as he gazes me, and says, “Where have you been?”

I breathe in. “Waiting,” I respond.

And it’s no lie. Actually it is the deepest, most heartfelt answer I could ever give him. After all, what else I ever did in life besides waiting? Besides daydreaming?

Now I realize more than I ever could that this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for through all this time. No turning back now, it’s out.

“Come,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“We’re going to rectify the situation right now.”

“What do you mean? What situation?”

“Your situation. Pete, I’m going to make love to you, now.”

The floor has fallen away. I’m holding my breath.

“That’s if you want to, I mean, I don’t want to push my luck.”

“I thought you didn’t make love. I thought you fucked hard.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there.

“I can make an exception, or maybe combine the two, we’ll see.” He winks. “Please, come with me. I want our arrangement to work, but you really need to have some idea what you’re getting yourself into. We can start your training tonight – with the basics. This doesn’t mean I’ve come over all hearts and flowers, it’s a means to an end, but one that I want, and hopefully you do too.” His gray gaze is intense.

I flush… oh my… wishes do come true.

“But I haven’t done all the things you require from your list of rules.” My voice is all breathy, hesitant.

“Forget about the rules. Forget about all those details for tonight. I want you. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office, and I know you want me. You wouldn’t be sitting here calmly discussing punishment and hard limits if you didn’t. Please, Pete, spend the night with me.” He holds his hand out to me, his eyes are bright, fervent… excited, and I put my hand in his. He pulls me up and into his arms so I can feel the length of his body against mine, this swift action taking me by surprise. He runs his fingers round the nape of my neck, winds the locks of my messy hair around his index, and gently pulls so I’m forced to look up at him. He gazes down at me.

“You are one brave young man,” he whispers. “I am in awe of you.”

His words are like some kind of incendiary device; my blood flames. He leans down and kisses my lips gently, and he sucks at my lower lip.

“I want to bite this lip,” he murmurs against my mouth, and carefully he tugs at it with his teeth. I moan, and he smiles. “Please Pete, just let me fuck you.”

“Yes,” I whisper, because that’s why I’m here. “Do me…” I can’t bring myself to say fuck, but I manage to do something better: “Please, do me, _Daddy_.”

Tony takes a sharp intake of breath and holds his palm against my mouth as if I said a bad word. “Kid… you’ll be playing with fire like this.” His voice and posture stiffens.

I smirk lightly, feeling naughty and proud of myself somehow. His smile is triumphant as he releases me and takes my hand and leads me through the mansion.

His bedroom is vast. The ceiling height windows look out on a lit up, high-rise beach sight. The walls are white, and the furnishings are pale blue. The enormous bed is ultra-modern, made of rough, grey wood, like driftwood, four posts, but no canopy. On the wall above it is a stunning painting of the sea.

I am quaking like a leaf. Finally, I’m going to do it, with none other than Tony Stark. My breath is shallow, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He removes his watch and places it on top of a chest of drawers that matches the bed, and removes his jacket, placing it on a chair. He’s dressed in his black linen shirt and jeans. He is heart-stoppingly beautiful. His dark copper hair is a mess, his shirt hanging out – his brown eyes bold and dazzling. He steps out of his shoes and reaches down and takes his socks off individually. Tony Stark’s feet… wow… what is it about naked feet? Turning, he gazes at me, his expression soft.

“I assume you’re not tested.”

What! Shit.

“I didn’t think so.” He opens the top drawer of the chest and removes a packet of condoms. He gazes at me intently.

“Be prepared,” he murmurs. “Do you want the blinds drawn?”

“I don’t mind.” I whisper. “I thought you didn’t let anyone sleep in your bed.”

“Who says we’re going to sleep?” he murmurs softly.

Holy hell.

He strolls slowly toward me. Confident, sexy, eyes blazing, and my heart begins to pound. My blood’s pumping around my body. Desire, thick and hot, pools in my belly. He stands in front of me, staring down into my eyes. He’s so freaking hot.

“Let’s get this jacket off, shall we?” he says softly, and takes hold of the lapels and gently slides my jacket off my shoulders. He places it on the chair.

“Do you have any idea how much I want you, Pete Parker?” he whispers. My breath hitches. I cannot take my eyes off his. He reaches up and gently runs his fingers down my cheek to my chin. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?” he adds, caressing my chin.

The muscles inside the deepest, darkest part of me clench in the most delicious fashion. The pain is so sweet and sharp I want to close my eyes, but I’m hypnotized by his eyes staring fervently into mine. Leaning down, he kisses me. His lips are demanding, firm and slow, molding mine. He starts unbuttoning my shirt while he places feather-like kisses across my jaw, my chin, and the corners of my mouth. Slowly he peels it off me and lets it fall to the floor. He stands back and gazes at me.

“Oh, Pete,” he breathes. “You have the most beautiful skin, pale and flawless. I want to kiss every single inch of it.”

I flush. Why did he say he couldn’t make love? I will do anything he wants. He grasps my hair tie, pulls it free, and gasps as my hair cascades down around my shoulders.

“Brunettes are my favorite,” he murmurs, and both of his hands are in my hair, grasping each side of my head. His kiss is demanding, his tongue and lips coaxing mine. I moan, and my tongue tentatively meets his. He puts his arms around me and hauls me against his body, squeezing me tightly. One hand remains in my hair, the other travels down my spine to my waist and down to my behind. His hand flexes over my backside and squeezes gently. He holds me against his hips, and I feel his erection, which he languidly pushes into me.

I moan once more into his mouth. I can hardly contain the riotous feelings or is it hormones that rampage through my body. I want him so badly. Gripping his upper arms, I feel his biceps, he’s surprisingly strong… muscular. Tentatively, I move my hands up to his face and into his goatee and hair. It’s so soft, unruly. I tug gently, and he groans. He eases me toward the bed, until I feel it behind my knees. I think he’s going to push me down on to it, but he doesn’t. Releasing me, he suddenly drops to his knees. He grabs my hips with both his hands and runs his tongue around my navel, then gently nips his way to my hipbone, then across my belly to my other hipbone.

“A-Ah,” I groan.

Seeing him on his knees in front of me, feeling his mouth on me, it’s so unexpected, and igniting. My hands stay in his hair, pulling gently as I try to quiet my too-loud breathing. He gazes up at me through his lashes, his eyes a scorching smoky russet. His hands reach up and undo the button on my jeans, and he leisurely pulls down the zipper. Without taking his eyes off mine, his hands move beneath the waistband, skimming me and moving to my behind. His hands glide slowly down my backside to my thighs, removing my jeans as they go. I cannot look away. He stops and licks his lips, never breaking eye contact. He leans forward, running his nose up, closer to the space in my crotch. I feel him. There.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse. He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress.

Still kneeling, he grasps my foot and undoes my Converse, pulling off my shoe and sock. I raise myself up on my elbows to see what he’s doing. I’m panting… wanting. He lifts my foot by the heel and runs his thumbnail up my instep. It’s a raw caressing, but I feel the movement echoed in my groin. I gasp. Not taking his eyes off mine, again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth. Shit. I groan… how can I feel this, there. I fall back on to the bed, moaning. I hear his soft chuckle.

“Oh, Pete, what I could do to you,” he whispers. He removes my other shoe and sock, then stands and removes my jeans. I’m lying on his bed dressed only in my undies, and he’s staring down at me.

“You’re _very_ beautiful, Peter Parker. I can’t wait to be inside you.”

His words. He’s so seductive. He takes my breath away.

“Show me how you pleasure yourself.”

I frown.

“Don’t be shy, Pete, show me,” he whispers.

I shake my head.

“Make yourself come for me, baby. Please, I want to see.”

Timidly, I finally pull down my underwear as he undoes the buttons of his jeans and slowly takes it off, his eyes on mine the whole time.

I start stroking myself, seized under his spell. I can’t believe I’m doing this in front of someone else. Even more, doing it for someone else’s enjoyment. Tony huffs, his chest puffing and loosening rapidly as he watches me, nervous puffs of his breath warming above my exposed, sensitive skin. “That’s it, baby. Do it for your daddy.”

As I try to hold a moan, he leans down over me and, grasping each of my ankles, quickly jerks my legs apart and crawls onto the bed between my legs. He hovers over me. I am squirming with need.

“Keep still,” he murmurs, and then he leans down and kisses the inside of my thigh, trailing kisses up, over the extension of my length.

Oh… I can’t keep still. How can I not move? I wriggle beneath him.

“We’re going to have to work on keeping you still, sweetheart.” He trails kisses up my belly, and his tongue dips into my navel. Still he’s heading north, kissing me across my torso. My skin is burning. I’m flushed, too hot, too cold, and I’m clawing at the sheet beneath me. He lay down beside me, and his hand trails up from my hip, to my waist, and up to my chest. He gazes down at me, his expression unreadable, and gently pinches one nipple.

I whimper immediately. He suppresses a smile of satisfaction.

“You are such a tease, Peter,” he murmurs and his grip tightens around my tip. His finger moves to the other and repeats the process. My chest swell, and my nipples harden under his steady gaze.

“Adorable,” he whispers appreciatively, and my nipples harden even more. “ _Very_ sensitive, huh?”

He blows very gently on one as his hand moves to my other, and his thumb slowly rolls the end of my nipple, elongating it. I groan, feeling the sweet sensation all the way to my groin. Speaking of which, I’m overflowing with precum. I’ve never been this wet before. Oh please, I beg internally as my fingers clasp the sheet tighter. His lips close around my other nipple and he tugs, I nearly convulse.

“Let’s see if we can make you come like this,” he whispers, continuing his slow, sensual assault. My nipples bear the delicious brunt of his deft fingers and lips, setting alight every single nerve ending in my body so that my whole body sings with the sweet agony. He just doesn’t stop.

“Oh… please,” I beg, and I pull my head back, my mouth open as I groan, my legs stiffening. What the fuck am I doing?

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs. His teeth close round my nipple, and his thumb and finger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces. He kisses me, deeply, his tongue in my mouth absorbing my cries.

Oh my. That was _good_. Now I know what all the fuss is about. He gazes down at me, a satisfied smile on his face, while I’m sure there’s nothing but gratitude and awe on mine.

“You’re too responsive,” he analyzes, unfazed, as if talking about something as trivial as the weather. “You’re going to learn to control that, and it’s going to be so much fun teaching you how.” He kisses me again.

My breathing is still ragged as I come down from my orgasm, my fluids trickling down my navel and the sides of my hips. His hand moves down my waist, scrubbing some of the cum off. He takes his wet hand close to his mouth, and licks his fingers clean. “ _So_ sweet…” he blows through gritted teeth. Jezz! Tony then cups me, intimately. His finger slips through the space down between my bottoms and slowly circles around me – there, gliding it with his humid digits. I am struck by another wave of sensitivity, it swamps me straight back to my vulnerable state. Briefly he closes his eyes, and his breathing hitches.

“You’re so ready to take me now. God, I want you.” He thrusts his finger inside me, and I cry out as he does it again and again. I feel him hitting it just at the perfect spot on my prostate, and I cry out once more. He pushes inside me harder and harder still. I groan.

Inexplicably, I’m hard again ( _What the fuck! I just finished!_ ). He sits up and briefly strokes my manhood before pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. _Gosh_ … He reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a foil packet, and then he moves between my legs, spreading them further apart. He kneels up and pulls a condom on to his considerable length. Oh no…Will it? How?

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, his eyes on mine, “trust me.” He leans down, his hands on either side of my head, so he’s hovering over me, staring down into my eyes, his jaw clenched, eyes burning. It’s only now that I register he’s still wearing his shirt.

“You really want to do this?” he asks softly.

“Please,” I beg.

“Pull your knees up,” he orders softly, and I’m quick to obey. “I’m going to fuck you now, kid,” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at my entrance. “Hard,” he whispers, and he slams into me.

“Aargh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity. He stills, gazing down at me, his eyes bright with ecstatic triumph.

His mouth is open slightly, and his breathing is harsh. He groans.

“You’re so tight. You okay?”

I nod, my eyes wide, my hands on his forearms. I feel so full. He stays still, letting me acclimatize to the intrusive, overwhelming feeling of him inside me.

“I’m going to move, baby,” he breathes after a moment, his voice tight.

Oh.

He eases back with exquisite slowness. And he closes his eyes and groans, and thrusts into me again. I cry out a second time, and he stills.

“More?” he whispers, his voice raw.

“Yes,” I breathe. He does it once more, and stills again.

I groan. My body accepting him… Oh, I want this. This is… so good…

“Again?” he breathes.

“Yes.” It’s a plea.

And he moves, but this time he doesn’t stop. He shifts onto his elbows so I can feel his weight on me, holding me down. He moves slowly at first, easing himself in and out of me. And as I grow accustomed to the alien feeling, my hips move tentatively to meet his. He speeds up. I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed, merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts. He grasps my head between his hands and kisses me hard, his teeth pulling at my lower lip again. He shifts slightly, and I can feel something building deep inside me, like before. I start to stiffen as he thrusts on and on. My body quivers, bows, a sheen of sweat gathers over me. Oh my… _there it comes!_ I didn’t know it would feel like this… didn’t know it could feel as good as this. My thoughts are scattering... there’s only sensation... only him... only me… oh please… I stiffen.

“ _M-Mr. Stark…!_ ”

“Come for me, son,” he whispers breathlessly, and I unravel at his words, exploding around him as I climax and splinter into a million pieces underneath him. And as he comes, he calls out my name, thrusting hard, then stilling as he empties himself into me.

I am still panting, trying to slow my breathing, my thumping heart, and my thoughts are in riotous disarray. Wow… that was astounding. I open my eyes, and he has his forehead pressed against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Tony’s eyes flicker open and gaze down at me, dark but soft. He’s still inside me. Leaning down, he gently presses a kiss against my forehead then slowly pulls out of me.

“Ooh.” I wince at the unfamiliarity.

“Did I hurt you?” Tony asks as he lies down beside me propped on one elbow. He plays with a stray strand of my hair. And I have to grin, widely.

“You are asking me if you hurt me?”

“The irony is not lost on me,” he smiles sardonically. “Seriously, are you okay?” His eyes are intense, probing, demanding even.

I stretch out beside him, feeling loose-limbed, my bones like jelly, but I’m relaxed, deeply relaxed. I grin at him. I can’t stop grinning. Now I know what all the fuss is about. Two orgasms in one single go… wow. I had no idea what my body was capable of, could be wound so tightly and released so violently, so gratifyingly. The pleasure was great.

“You’re biting your lip, and you haven’t answered me.” He’s frowning. I grin up at him impishly. He looks glorious with his tousled hair, burning narrowed eyes, and both serious and playful expression.

“I’d like to do that again,” I whisper. For a moment, I think I see a fleeting look of relief on his face, before the shutters come down, and he gazes at me through hooded eyes.

“Would you now, Mr. Parker?” he murmurs dryly. He leans down and kisses me very gently at the corner of my mouth. “Demanding little thing aren’t you. Turn on your front.”

I blink at him momentarily, and then I turn over.

“You really have the most beautiful skin,” he mutters. He shifts so that one of his legs pushes between mine, and he’s half lying across my back. I can feel the buttons of his shirt pressing into me as he gathers my hair off my face and kisses my bare shoulder.

“Why are you wearing your shirt?” I ask. He stills. After a beat, he shuffles out of his shirt, and he lies back down on me. I feel his warm skin against mine. Hmm… it feels heavenly. He has a wide dusting of hair across his chest, which tickles my back.

“So you want me to fuck you again, kid?” he whispers in my ear, and he begins to trail feather light kisses around my ear and down my neck.

“Yes, Tony.”

“Look.” His grip loosens, and he distances himself from me for a while as he explains, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. When we’re alone, you’ll be only allowed to address me by three names: master, sir or daddy. Have your pick, okay?”

_Oh._ _The strict-parent card, huh? I like how you play, Mr. Stark._

“Okay.” I shrug, knowing very well what I just did.

“‘Okay’ what?” There it is.

“Okay, Sir.”

“Very nice. Good boy.”

His hand moves down, skimming my waist, over my hip, and down my thigh to the back of my knee. He pushes my knee up higher, and my breath hitches… oh my, what’s he doing now? He shifts so he’s between my legs, pressed against my back, and his hand travels up my thigh to my behind. He caresses my cheek slowly, and then trails his fingers down between my legs.

“I’m going to take you from behind, Peter,” he murmurs, and with his other hand, he grasps my hair at the nape in a fist and pulls gently, holding me in place. I cannot move my head. I am pinioned beneath him, helpless.

“You are _mine_ ,” he whispers in ragged, single breath. “Only mine. I _own_ you, don’t you dare forget it.” His voice is intoxicating, his words heady, seductive. I feel his growing erection against my thigh.

He wet his fingers again and then use them to gently massage my entrance, circling slowly. His breath is soft against my face as he slowly nips me along my jaw. The scruff from his goatee, scratching my sensitive nape, oh-so-piercing!

“You smell divine,” he nuzzles behind my ear. His hand rubs against me, round and round. Reflexively, my hips start to circle, mirroring his hand, as excruciating pleasure spikes through my blood like adrenaline.

“Keep still,” he orders, his voice soft but urgent, and slowly he inserts his thumb inside me, rotating it round and round, stroking the my front wall. The effect is mind-blowing – all my energy concentrating on this one small space inside my body. I moan.

“You like this?” he asks softly, his teeth grazing my outer ear, and he starts to flex his thumb slowly, in, out, in, out… his fingers still circling.

I can’t respond, my words are being stolen by unwanted pants.

“Answer me.” He uses his free hand to grab my neck, his grip starts tightening around my throat. Torrid enough to keep my hard-on prolonged, and threatening enough to make me rush in without further thinking:

“Y-Yes, Daddy! I like it _so_ much…!”

I close my eyes, trying to keep my breathing under control, trying to absorb the disordered, chaotic sensations that his fingers are unleashing on me, fire coursing through my body. I moan again.

“You’re so ready again, so quickly. So responsive. Oh, Peter, I like that. I like that a lot,” he whispers.

I want to stiffen my legs, but I can’t move. He’s pinning me down, keeping up a constant, slow, tortuous rhythm. It’s absolutely exquisite. I moan again, and he moves suddenly.

“Open your mouth,” he commands and thrusts his thumb in my mouth. My eyes fly open, blinking wildly.

“See how you taste,” he breathes against my ear. “Suck me, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes round him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and the faint metallic tang of blood. Shit. This is wrong, but fuck is it erotic.

“I want to fuck your mouth, Peter, and I will soon,” his voice is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed.

Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him. He gasps, and he pulls my hair tighter, painfully, so I release him.

“Naughty, sweet baby boy,” he whispers, and then reaches over to the bedside table for a new foil packet. “Stay still, don’t move,” he orders as he releases my hair.

He rips the foil while I’m breathing hard, my blood singing in my veins. The anticipation is exhilarating. He leans down, his weight on me again, and he grabs my hair holding my head immobile. I cannot move. I’m enticingly ensnared by him, and he’s poised and ready to take me once more.

“We’re going to go real, slow this time, Peter,” he breathes.

And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he’s buried in me. Stretching, filling, relentless. I groan loudly. It feels deeper this time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in. He repeats this motion again and again. It’s driving me insane – his teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of fullness is overwhelming.

“You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits. “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.

“Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight, craving release.

“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward. “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that you’ve been here. Where you truly belongs. With your owner.”

I groan.

“Please, Master,” I whisper.

“What do you want, Peter? Tell me.”

I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me, circling his hips once more.

“Tell me,” he croons.

“You, please.”

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. My insides start quickening, and Tony picks up the rhythm.

“You. Are. So. Flawless,” he purrs between each thrust. “I. Want. You. So. Much.”

I moan. “Oh _yes_ , Daddy!”

“You. Are. Mine. Come, baby. Do it! For me. C’mon, let go,” he growls. “N-Now!”

His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress, and Tony follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he finds his release. He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.

“Fuck. Pete,” he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out into an exhausted sleep.

When I wake, it’s still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore. Tony is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring out at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, and there’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music. The lilting notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not sure.

I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room. Tony is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing. His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light, untouchable… lonely, in a bubble.

I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I’m mesmerized watching his skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his unfathomable brown eyes bright, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

A frown flits across his face.

“Surely, I should be saying that to you,” he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.

I notice now that he’s wearing boxer shorts. He runs his fingers through his hair and stands. His shorts hang from his hips… oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano towards me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.

“You should be in bed,” he admonishes.

“That was a beautiful piece. I didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t. Not technically. It’s a new project I’m testing with neurotechnology, it’s taking me a while to figure it out along with implementing it with regular mechanics,” he explains. “It’s supposed to make playing instruments more easily. It reads your neuro waves on what kind of sound or note you want to play and tries to translate it as better as it can to the keyboard. If I’m successful, this can not only improve but change the way we learn forever…”

I can feel him loosing himself into his monologue. Apart from all of the dogmatic roles that this new, weird relationship just began to dictate, I, suddenly, can see Tony so small. And I feel so big and wholehearted as I watch him fade into his own particular nerdy discussions. It’s almost as if I’m the dad now, seeing my little boy go over his aspirations and dreams, and feeling so proud and entranced about all of it.

I make sure to capture this moment in the bowels of my mind as vivid as it would be to take a photograph. And I keep my mental polaroid in one of my mental pockets, to relive it later over and over again like one of my many old, cherished comic book issues.

“You’re a _marvel_ to look at, Mr. Stark. Do you know that?”

His lips quirk up in a half smile.

“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”

“I woke and you weren’t there.”

“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” he mumbles. I can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.

“How long have you been working on mechanics like this? It is truly fascinating.”

“Since I was six.”

“Oh.” Tony as a six-year-old boy… my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, black-haired little boy with brunette eyes and my heart melts – a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music and solitary activities.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a sidelight.

“I’m good.”

We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood on the sheets – evidence of my lost virginity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.

“Well, that’s going to give Miss Potts something to think about when she comes by tomorrow,” Tony mutters as he stands in front of me. He puts his hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me. His eyes are intense as he examines my face. I realize that I’ve not seen his naked chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of dark, almost grizzled hair on his chest to see how it feels. Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.

“Get into bed,” he says sharply. “I’ll come and lie down with you.” His voice softens. I drop my hand and frown. I don’t think I’ve ever touched his torso. He opens a chest of drawers and pulls out a t-shirt and quickly slips it on.

“Bed,” he orders again. I climb back onto the bed, trying not to think about the blood. He clambers in beside me and pulls me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me so that I’m facing away from him. He kisses my hair gently, and he inhales deeply.

“Sweet dreams, baby boy,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes, but I can’t help feel a residual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor. Tony Stark has a sad side.


End file.
